


Underneath Your Tide

by garnettrees



Series: Time and Tide [2]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Abduction, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Dark, Begging, Charles You Slut, Dark!Charles, Dom!Charles and Sub!Erik, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Fluffy D/s, Forced Orgasm, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Hopeless Romantic But Not A Very Nice One, Introspection, Introspective Porn, M/M, Mindfuck, Mutant Rights, Nipple Play, Non-Graphic Violence, Oh No FEELINGS, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pet Names, Porn With Plot, Possessive Behavior, Post Beach, Post-Coital Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking, Psychic Bond, Psychological Drama, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Service Submission, Service Top, Soulmates, Stockholm Syndrome, Subspace, Telepathy, X-men - Freeform, collaring, emo!porn, enema, feeding-kink, is dark and creepy romance a tag?, psychic bondage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:37:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garnettrees/pseuds/garnettrees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/498538/chapters/874129">Night Ocean</a>.</p><p>A year after the altercation on the beach-- subsequent capture by his supposedly-pacifist best friend-- Erik waits for Charles to come home from a scientific conference. On the outside, they are two like-minded individuals building a school for their kind. </p><p>Privately... Erik belongs to Charles-- absolute and non-negotiable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, when you sit down to write porn and end up with _this much_ plot… that's a monster of a fic. I shouldn't be surprised-- Night Ocean was the same way. I must be doing something wrong. ^_~
> 
> At any rate, hear is the first chapter of what was supposed to be a brief Epilogue for [Night Ocean](http://archiveofourown.org/works/498538/chapters/874129). I had promised the OP a few other kinks-- among them, collaring-- and a fluffy-yet-creepy ending. Then this little 'plot' (term used loosely ^_~) bunny got a hold of my foot and wouldn't let go. Madness. I promise, promise there will be more emo pr0n and actual pr0n in the next two chapters… dark-and-morally-ambiguous!Charles just sort of got away from me for a moment. X_x;;
> 
> As always, I would be so incredibly grateful if you could take the time to comment. I really appreciate you taking the time to read my story, and I'd love to hear what you think.
> 
> Obviously, this won't make much sense without [Night Ocean](http://archiveofourown.org/works/498538/chapters/874129). And, like its predecessor, it is so TOTALLY not safe for work. NC-17, dudes; if not right this moment, then in the next two chapters, and definitely with some of the adult themes of D/s, captivity, and power exchange. Obviously, I am a Cherik shipper, so I promise you this *is* a love story, for them. *frowns at Erik… and Charles*
> 
>  **TW for this chapter:** Mind-control, irresponsible use of telepathy, non-traditional families, conspiracy, D/s themes in a relationship, dark!Charles, an Erik who receives mail at an address in Stockholm. ^___^

_**"The Professor is home!"** _

Even in a crowd of a hundred gifted psychics, the delicate peal of Jean Grey's projections would be instantly recognizable. It always makes Erik think of thin glass reeds, or icicles currently encasing the crooked branches outside the study window-- there's something melodic and solemn about it, no matter how excited she becomes. Right now, she is the only telepath in the house, and the force of her developing psyche makes the whole world feel imbued with vibrato. Folding his newspaper with a sigh, Erik sends her a firm but gentle reprimand, exactly as Charles has taught him. It's always a strange experience, this 'sending'-- Erik feels as if he's beaming radio waves into space, listening for stars so distant they may never respond in return. Most of Jean's dedication to volume stems from the fact she doesn't know if her classmates and teachers hear her, either. It makes her a little over-zealous, requiring great patience-- not something Lehnsherr has ever laid claim to. 

 

_('But you are stubborn,' Charles often reminds him. 'Which is the other edge of patience, dear.' That the metal-bender possesses in seemingly limitless stores.)_

 

_**'The! Professor! Is! Home!'**_ Blinding soprano this time, breaking the thin film of still winter air with her agitation.

_'We heard you the first time, Jean.'_ A calm tone, but Erik is keeping a thin reign on his own suddenly accelerating heartbeat. Still no telling if she's heard, but there's no way she can miss Angel's very firm banging on the first floor ceiling. 

"Knock it off, Jeanie-bean!" Salvadore's voice reaches a grating, sisterly pitch. There's a definite wave of amusement from Jean, and an image of the little red-head running pell-mell down the corridors. Rising from his chair, the older man shakes his head. Angel has little to be grumpy about, even if Jean's leaking is a bit rude. It's not as if there were any peace-- illusionary or otherwise-- to be shattered. 

 

 

Outside the warm study, with its orange-yellow glow of sanctuary, New England lies sprawled under a glaze of snow. Not night yet, but close to it-- the sky is pitch to the east, gradually melting into a smelting purple and sapphire down behind the thick, bare trees. It's been spitting frozen rain on and off all day, making the house of Graymalkin Lane a blazing fixture in the center of frostbitten fields. Inside the great bulk of stone that is Xavier's School for Gifted Children, it's another story all together. Erik has been trying to grab a moment to scan the news for the past two hours. As with many evenings, he's no sooner settled in the tall arm-chair 

 

_('The throne,' John calls it, and thinks he's being clever. Also surreptitious, and he is neither of these things, especially if he believes Erik reigns over anything.  
_ Shhhh... _, Erik tells himself, letting the anticipatory shiver of pleasure fade into the burnished metal of his spine. Later.)_

 

then there is some altercation that needs mediating, homework that can't wait _one more minute_ , or (most baffling of all) a request to come play. The past three weeks have been by no means unpleasant, but they have been astonishingly busy, and the entire household is more than ready for their professor to return. Now, Jean is using her vocal chords to carol her message instead, opening and slamming doors as she makes her way towards the the main foyer. Not the only racket, not by a stretch. Angel and some of the older boys are watching _'The Twilight Zone'_ in the other room. Upstairs, Bobby and John are playing the Kingmen's 'Louie, Louie' at maximum volume, thoroughly convinced they'll be able to pick out the 'dirty words'. Alex has Scott out in the garage for more brotherly bonding via engine grease and monkey wrenches-- every now and then, Erik will hear a hiss or crash that does nothing to reassure him. 

 

Jean's psychic range is irregular at best, and devastatingly strong at its worst. Erik stretches out his own senses, running like quicksilver along the struts and plumbing in the house, the bits of Cerebro that secretly wend up into the living areas and out the protect the perimeter of their tiny kingdom. Out, out, past the rickety wire fence that borders the property on one side, and old man Greenly's rusty well-pipe on the other. Charles will be able to feel Erik before the reverse is true, but that does not mean Lehnsherr cannot reach out as well. That other sense, the faint cords and veins of silk that inexorably bind him to Charles, is a bit more like groping against velvet in the dark, but even that is good. 

 

Signposts, rail-tracks, the minuscule and varied debris of modern civilization strewn about the only reliable outbound road in Westchester's tiny unincorporated township. The reach of his metallic affinity has grown by leaps and bounds, but there's nothing of note to sense. Only familiar terrain, filtered through the strange geometry of meta-human power. The January evening has a waiting quality, a hush. Tenderly, the older mutant examines the precious ember of _Charles_ that remains anchored in his own mind, pulsing with ghostly warmth no matter what distance. Erik cups it close, as he has since Xavier passed beyond the range of communication. He guards it jealously, marveling over it in the watches of the night, soothing himself with it the way sea-beasts gloat over their treasure. 

And, finally.

_Erik._ So warm, a golden-blue resonance one could drown in. _Dearest_. 

_Charles._ Less a name or even a word than the prayerful gathering of syllables. He says it again, on a sigh. The nearness of his lover is almost overwhelming after this long stretch, and Erik cannot afford to be distracted. He obeys the gentle push to withdrawal, bowing luxuriously under the command, smooth as a hilt of ivory against Xavier's touch. 

Distantly, a siren promise in the frozen trees, _'Soon, soon, soon…'_

 

Lehnsherr emerges from the study just in time to watch Jean belatedly try to slow as she barrels down the main hallway in her stocking-feet. It's a useless gesture, especially on the hardwood floor, but Erik catches her around the middle with the ease of long practice, ensuring for the thousandth time that she doesn't break her neck. Jean, hair like the red feathers of some mythical bird, grins up at him guilelessly.  
"In a hurry?" he asks dryly.

"The professor! Is home! Finally!" The girl attempts to sing-song, even as she gasps for breath. It makes for a syncopated rhythm, a rock 'n roll beat. 

"Indeed. I think the whole of New England heard you." He'd be a bit more stern with her-- after all, this little strawberry wild-child could easily put the whole county down with a migraine-- but he can see she's practically vibrating with excitement. Because it will amuse Charles, he adds, "If you're going to be galavanting about shouting news, I believe your line is 'the British are coming!'."

"There's only one British coming," Jean corrects him seriously. He lets her back down on both feet and she steps away, fusing with the folds of her yellow baby-doll dress. She's sporting a strand of pink faux-pearls filched off Angel, and appears at have been attempting to braid her hair for the occasion.

"Forgotten all about Betsy, have we?" He already knows the answer. Jean adores Charles with an almost cherubic passion, never quite letting go of that moment when she finally 'heard' someone who could speak intelligently in the otherwise lunatic maelstrom of human thought. It's a feeling the metal-bender cannot blame her, even if it does sometimes stir brief, dark flashes of jealousy in his own internal sea. 

 

_'Implying, of course, that_ you _have not forgotten_ ," Charles teases gently, a little bit of firm guidance braided in with his laughter. With the help of various lawyers, overly-enthusiastic scientists, and bankers demanding a piece of the Englishman's rare time in New York, the professor's original two-week trip had slowly morphed into three. Erik found himself unceremoniously pulled from the much-anticipated 'chore' of driving Xavier home from the station. Instead, it had fallen to Besty Braddock, who would soon be Mrs Lennox. Blasted dual-citizenship papers, but she wanted them for Tom, and no one could be more thrilled than Charles at the thought of an 'official' human-mutant union. 

To Charles, he says, _'I could have…'_

Ah, but those thoughts are not for the Erik of the outside world-- he slips them quickly and deftly back past the intricate clockwork of his under-mind. 

_'Hush. I know.'_ Quietly, like a light touch of those elegant fingers to his wrist.

 

"That's not fair, you know," Jean says, screwing her face into a perfect miniature of Raven's 'little rich girl' attitude. "Stop talking in above-waves-- I can't hear you!" She is a force to be reckoned with, their delicate firecracker, raw and untempered. No matter how she grows and refines, though, Charles will always be stronger. Part of it is simply birthright-- the young professor has outpaced every mentalist and psychic mutant they have encountered. It's not difficult to picture the Frost woman's sculpted eyebrow, quirked over a gaze of grudging awe. 

Part of it is that, no matter how fine or sharp the sword, it will always come apart under its author's hand. 

"It's a grown-up discussion," Erik says as he gently herds her towards the main entrance. "I'm sure you'd find it perfectly boring." 

"Hmph." Oh, she may have learned the tone from Raven, but that eye-roll is Angel, through and through.

 

 

The entire household is converging on the entrance hall, the instinct at once unconscious and possessed of a natural design. Like the artful shapes formed by hundreds of birds in flight; freely given, but utterly unseen by the individuals involved. They are an odd-- and often tempestuous-- mix of personalities. Each one accustomed to existing on the fringes and chameleons all, trying to anticipate each other's shifts. Many of them have spent almost their entire lives alone, with only words like 'freak' and 'monster' for company. Now they are, if not quite a family… a cohort. Comrades in mundane living, in caring for and educating the little ones, in building something in which they all believe. In many ways, they are all children, constantly astonished to find themselves in warm company, to look over at others and realize they are not a mistake. 

 

Charles is their nexus-- a brilliant convergence of light and shadow. The X-Men do not call Xavier their leader, despite the connotations of the moniker they've chosen. They do not even visualize him as figurehead or patriarch. (Incomprehensibly, the 'father' image often goes to Erik-- stern, somewhat unpredictable, fiercely protective as he towers over them all.) Instead, everyone refers to Charles as 'the Professor', and they leave it at that. The short-hand gives Xavier a mystical quality, makes him their talisman and guide. That this occurs organically, with little to no interference from the telepath, is Charles' greatest gift.

 

_(Greatest weapon, too-- for who is to say where loyalty and affection end, and something else begins? It bleeds, runs like dye in textile-thick water, churning and disguising its depth. There is another word for Charles, etched behind all their hearts, though none would ever admit it._

_'King'? Perhaps.  
God?_

_Well. Erik can only think back to old stories-- Jesse's young son David, whose vigor and earnest belief moved even the Lord of Israel. Brave, arrogant little lyre-boy. Poet who felled a giant and rose from shepherd to possession of the crown.)_

 

Alex and Scott are in from the garage-- still mussed and smeared, but with shirts tucked in and collars straightened. Angel, Janos and Sean have abandoned their television program. Bobby and John have done the same with their records, if the ruckus on the stairs is any indication. Ororo and Meggan scamper in from the greenhouse, where Tom Lennox has been watching them with a calm, capable (and sometimes, to Erik, still distressing) human eye. Hank is even up from the lab-- no small feat, these days. 

 

The heavy oak door swings open, as if from a great wind, though the sleet-laden air is actually quite still. Betsy practicing her TK again. She's laughing as she and Charles enter, long hair escaping her winter cap in whips of violet onyx. Tall and utterly unself-conscious about it, she manages to move deftly despite the fact her arms are laden with packages. The sight of brightly colored boxes rouses a cry of delight from the children, though Christmas was little over a month ago. Erik doesn't begrudge them this, even if he typically thinks Charles spoils them all. It seemed everything at the end of 1963 was subdued, cast under the pall of grainy, shocking footage and half-mast flags. Lehnsherr sometimes thinks America is a nation of daydreamers, so startled are they by a violence other governments might consider routine. It might be youth, that sweetens hopes and sours expectations, making them naively sure that they would be the exception.  
Erik knows assassination is just the final continuation of politics. The specter over Texas proves that, if nothing else.

 

_'Such dark thoughts, my love,'_ Charles scolds, in a mix of playfulness and concern. The telepath is just a step behind Betsy, gesturing animatedly with one hand as he vocalizes the end of some story about the Metropolitan Museum of Art. His other arm is also hefting a precarious stack of boxes and portfolios, which the older man immediately moves forward to relieve him of. Erik does this both to get a better look at his young man, and to remind himself of his present surroundings.

 

Even as he clings to his public role and the backdrop that informs it, there is a part of Lehnsherr that quivers, quenching in delight. He loves serving Charles, no matter what capacity. There's a wave of tender possessiveness from the professor in response to this thought, and both men lock gazes. Their eyes are darker and more intensely burning than their friendly, companionable smiles. 

The Charles standing before him is the epitome of Professor X. Exquisitely put together in pea coat, marble-gray scarf and dark flat-cap, he is a beautiful man in grandfather's clothes. The cold has flushed his cheeks like new apples; his eyes are a mystical and ever-changing blue Erik has observed nowhere else. He looks lively, and faintly ridiculous, and so gorgeous it hurts. 'For the love of all earthly things!' the metal-bender chastises himself-- his lover has only been gone three weeks. Everyone should be so lucky, so quick to have their _axis mundi_ returned. 

Twenty-one days, give or take. He'd actually broken it down into hours, at one point, unwillingly superstitious in their massive and empty bed. Now, as the velvet-firm feel of Charles psyche closes around him like the grip of a falconer's glove, Erik finds the calculation has flown completely from his own mind. He could go down on his knees for Xavier right now, though a part of him cringes at the imagined shame. 

 

The only outward sign the older mutant actually gives is a huff, and that self-mocking release of air is easily lost in the ruckus around him. The children are clamoring for attention; Hank and Janos have a thousand questions; and Betsy-- never a fan of 'PDA'-- endures Tom's bear-hug only briefly before wiggling free. Even the teenagers-- who normally hold themselves to a sort of cinematic aloofness that amuses and irritates Erik by turns-- have joined in the melee. As his senses settle, the older man realizes the foyer itself is alive with a plain but potent harmony. Little metal pieces; nuts and bolds, allen wrenches and struts, even tiny engines-- not unusual in composition, but in their size and sheer profusion. Only Charles could distract Erik from so much of his vital element, and for so long. 

 

As Betsy sets down her packages, the children engage in a sort of cooperative destruction to open them all at once. Then John spies spies the burden Lehnsherr has so recently undertaken, and they begin a playful assault on their caregiver as well. 

"Back up! One at a time," he says, cutting the string and butcher paper, with a hands-free swipe of his pocket-knife. The boxes reveal an Erector set, or several of them, straight from some gleaming toy shop in New York. He sends the pieces rolling and tumbling in precise formations towards the playroom, as Bobby and John seem perfectly happy to begin construction right in the middle of the hall. Chasing the bits seems an even more enthralling game for the little ones. Ororo and Jean look like kittens clumsily stalking mice, and Erik hides his smile. 

"And you say I spoil them." Charles takes a brief moment to lean against the older man's arm as he's ushered in away from the cold draft.

"With educational toys?" Sarcasm laced with challenge, the same way Erik had needled his lover when he'd first looked upon the Westchester 'house'. Quietly, surreptitiously, the older man begins a sweep of the weary traveler. Cuff-links, metal buttons, belt-buckle… there isn't a piece of metal on Charles' body that Erik doesn't know with intimate, almost religious devotion. All the same, Xavier blocks him just as deftly, gently pushing him away from the addition he senses. 

 

"It's not all educational," the Professor replies lightly, cheeks dimpling with a light flush.

"I think it's a good choice," Hank pipes in, cheerfully immune to the atmosphere around the two men. He has always been a little bit blind to the interplay, like lightening under ice, even in the early days. Turned out, he and half the Langley complex thought Erik and Charles were going to come to blows, so tense was the atmosphere between them. "It teaches problem solving skills, and encourages incidental learning."

"Right you are!" Xavier praises, squeezing Erik's elbow. _'Don't snoop. Did you think I'd bring something back for the others, and not for you?'_

"I stand corrected." Lehnsherr makes a show of rolling his eyes. _'I don't need to be spoiled, neshama',_ he adds quietly, ruining the effect as a faint edge of longing creeps into the shape and weave of his thoughts. The cool, soothing tendrils of the professor's telepathy hum with amusement, caressing his lover in response. They both know it is not Erik who decides what he needs. 

 

 

The homecoming is breaking up a bit now-- Charles is hugged (the children), clapped on the shoulder (Janos, Sean, and Alex), and kissed on the cheek (Angel). John and Bobby tilt up their adolescent chins, as if nodding in the professor's direction is respectable acknowledgement enough. Hank is sitting cross-legged on the rug, Meggan in his lap, simultaneously attempting to assist her with the toy and interrogate Xavier about the genetics conference. Betsy and Tom have slipped away, excused by the very fact of their togetherness. Erik flicks a short, stern glance towards the lights of the gatehouse, still visible from the manse. Man and wife-- 'Little Eden', Hank and Charles teasingly call it, in that absent, overly-educated way of theirs. 

_'I've missed you all,'_ Charles sends, dropping to a level low enough for the other members of the household to hear, and for Jean to 'reach' with her projections. She does this with her typical fire and vigor-- for a moment, Erik has the dizzying sensation of overlapping starbursts, comet-tails, and willow-showers of glow. Everyone in the house experiences Jean-- and Charles'-- mental voice differently, but they all tend to stem from a common corner stone. Betsy perceives Xavier, for example, as a spill of fine ultramarine ink over ancient parchment. Ororo conceives of Jean with the starling color and brevity of an African fire flower, and of Charles as the cobalt tile mosaics she saw in the University of Cairo. John eyes both telepaths warily, still; the little one is a bushfire, and the professor is the deep blue of coal fire that burns and burns. Erik draws his perception of Jean from the same common source as the others-- a brightly colored, fast-moving bundle of enthusiasm and energy. Only his image of Charles is different, sacred and very secretly his. 

 

_(The ocean, tide and sapphire blackness under the apex of night. A void that is not a void at all, not an absence, but the glow of a darkness brighter than light. Like the smooth, glassy texture of the Sargasso sea, there is no point of reference, no way to navigate. There is only the warm slide of water, and the siren voice to call him lovingly down.)_

 

"How were they?" Charles asks aloud, managing to slump elegantly on the couch.

"Fine, for the most part," Lehnsherr replies, forming the words with dry lips and tongue. There's an immediate scramble for the sofa-- even Bobby is sitting on the edge, trying to look nonchalant. "No accidents, injuries, property damage or fatalities."

That earns him a smile, "I'm glad you hold them to such high standards."

"Everyone beat their best training time," the older mutant adds grudgingly, "and homework is finished."

"I'm sure they've been a handful," Xavier replies. 

"And your trip?" He's fighting not to shift his weight now, hating the catch and clash as they try to find the rhythm that was interrupted. 

"The conference was excellent. Hank has developed quite the following, and others were eager to contribute to our anecdotal evidence." One arm around Ororo, the young man stretches the other and covers his yawn with a hand. He looks very much like a boy himself, half-buried under a pile of enthusiastic wards and half-built toys. "The drive was tiresome, but the weather wasn't as bad as they were saying."

"And now you're back to rescue us," John says. He remains on the floor, blond hair sticking every which way in the firelight, but he hugs Charles' leg in a rare display of affection. "From _him_." Allerdyce's attempt at glaring needles brings a challenging smirk to the metal-bender's lips-- they are more like little sewing pins, easily bent and deflected. 

"Oh, but I think I'm here to rescue Erik," Charles ruffs the boys hair, voice rich with hidden laughter. _'What say you?'_ he asks, on their own private frequency. _'I've brought you an offering, now shall I slay some dragons?'_

 

"It's all the same in the end." Erik turns his nose up, as if the verbal conversation is beneath him. He does this even as he uncoils a tendril of power, looking for whatever Charles hoped into hide in the cacophony of metal.

Charles' response is the mental equivalent of a quick slap on the wrist. _'I told you, it's a surprise. Be good.'_ A little tweak to the edge of that cherry red smile, for he knows the effect of those words on his older lover. 

"Well, rescue you I shall." The professor claps his hands firmly against his knees. "I think you deserve a break from all this. I can see the children off to bed."

_'Pro- **fessor**!_ Jean sends, dialing up the volume. The others, particularly Bobby and Janos, flinch. "You just got home!"

"And home is where I intend to stay." The tone is reassuring. "Remember to use your words. I'll be here in the morning, and I'll read to you before bed. I don't know about you, but all this dreadful cold makes me want to hibernate!"

"You can't… do… that," Scott says around his giggles.

"Oh, no?" With that, the professor motions for the children to put the toys away. Like the pied piper, he leads them with a melodic ease, deftly side-stepping the many arguments Erik often faces about bedtimes. The older man watches for a moment, bids the children goodnight, then turns and begins his way down the darkened hall, alone. 

 

Except he isn't-- he never is, not really. There's the ghost-touch of Charles' warm hand against the back of his neck, stroking. The adoring sensation of affection, wrapped as a furred mantle about his shoulders. 

_'I'll be down very shortly,'_ the professor whispers sweetly. Moonstruck, is an English word Lehnsherr found quite funny in his youth-- now, the silvery-blue touch of his telepath's mind has that very same effect. _'Will you wait for me, darling?'_ As if it's even a question. _'Will you prepare; make yourself ready for me?'_

Erik's surrender rushes to Xavier the way copper alloys with gold-- wanton-blushed, clinging. _'Oh, yes.'_

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Title loosely cribbed from the Grizzly Bear's song, "Deep Sea Diver".
> 
> Non-XMFC Cameos:  
> *Betsy Braddock, aka Psylocke  
> *Tom Lennox, agent for the UK version of SHIELD.  
> *Ororo Munroe, aka Storm  
> *Saint-John Allerdyce, aka Pyro  
> *Bobby Drake aka Iceman  
> *Meggan Puceanu aka Tapestry/Gloriana
> 
>  
> 
> Collaring in the next chapter. Promise-cross-my-heart. ^_~;;;


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: These… these… _boys_ are going to be the death of me, I swear. I suppose I should be grateful-- when I get blocked on "Headlong Toward the Starry Sea", this clears it right up, but…. 29kb of pr0n? *shakes head at self* _Seriously._ Obviously, I have no shame. Following that, I hope you enjoy more broken-yet-distressingly-cognizant-of-it!Erik, dark-andloving!Charles, and what **LitGrrl20** was kind enough to call their 'delicious and fucked up' dynamic. *grins* Thank you so, so much to **Sanlynn** , **LitGrrl20** and **musical_emjay** for taking the time to leave feedback!  Comments completely make my day, so if you have a fancy to leave even a little one, I'd be forever in your debt! **TW for this chapter:** Mind-control, irresponsible use of telepathy, non-traditional families, conspiracy, D/s, feeding kink, collaring, flashbacks to possessive!Erik, brief mentions of enemas (denoted by '*****' in case that's not your thing). Orgasm denial/delay, condescending pet names. Meredith's distressing purple prose, and the fact Erik could give G-ddamn guided tours of Stockholm.

Erik enters the bedchamber with his typical stealth, quietly toeing off his shoes by the door. He knows he has a great economy of movement-- sparse, but graceful for the sake of silence. After all, he's been cultivating it for most of his life. First by instinct, as the hardiest organisms adapt

_(warp, mutate)_

to survive. Then deliberately, knowing the body to be just as Da Vinci's sketches portrayed it. Mechanical, regimented, ruled by physics-- never mind the frail composition of flesh. That veneer of careless elegance and preparedness to strike takes work; if there ever was

_(there was)_

a time when he was as spontaneous and reeling with childish vigor as Jean, then it is a dim and far away thing. 

 

_("Does Erik have a hobby?" He remembers Scott asking, shortly after Alex plucked him from the wreckage of a _fifth_ foster situation. Out in the hall, Erik himself had paused. Though the summer-blonde boy would turn into a chatterbox, he was at first awed into silence by the all the new people, so very different and yet essentially the same. The adults made an effort to share looking after the little ones-- even Angel and Sean voice only the most perfunctory of grumbles. Charles and Hank had their research; Betsy had her cooking; Tom, his work in the garden. Alex was already sharing his passion for automobiles, and Raven had ver flamboyant, arresting designs. Utterly still, Erik listened , knowing full well the children where in there scraping their plates with knives and forks and not actually eating their peas._

_There was an inordinate amount of giggling, and little-girl whispers about sharks._

_"Sure," John finally answered, lazy drawl pronounced. "He lurks.")_

 

Rolling his eyes at the memory, Erik reaches out with his power, turning on the room's few dim lamps. The main source of light is always the fire, but it will need to be built and kindled. He sets himself to that task, next. Allerdyce was perhaps not far off-- Erik has his metal-working, and he maintains a constant state of readiness in case of assault (his "lurking").  
But his silence now is not about concealment.

 

It's almost reverence. Or, perhaps a sense of ritual is a better explanation. Entering this room is like a snake shedding its skin; he does it often and naturally, but never without a sense of superstition and relief. Behind him, there is the house above-- its mundane hum, solid colors and routine strangeness. Across this threshold, the exterior world loses that dimension, begins to seem unreal. It's counter-intuitive, he knows. If anything, _this_ space is the dream-world, but it does not change how the metal-bender feels. 

 

He has a room upstairs. _'Hunter green'_ , Raven calls the wallpaper. It's full of sturdy, puritanical furniture-- not a coincidence, if Charles' initial volley about finding something 'suitable' was anything to go by. Clothes that survived the hasty exit from Argentina and Miami; shoes, a razor, and few other items that have naturally accumulated since he and Charles first came here looking for temporary shelter. It is a room that belongs to Mr. Lehnsherr, the administrator and cofounder of the Xavier School, whose name features alongside the professor's on so much of the legal paperwork. Sometimes, he even sleeps there, just a few doors down from the headmaster himself. They're a team, and most of the 'faculty' lives in-residence-- it's not as if there's anything terribly unusual about the arrangement. 

_This_ room, whose floors and walls he knows from intimate imprisonment, is part of of the bunker below. The paranoid subterranean brainchild of Charles' stepfather extends like a reflection under most of the aged manor above. The Danger Room, laboratories, and other 'X' facilities are connected to West Wing. Here, in the East, there is only this-- a sizable chamber, and a small bathroom branching off to the side. 'The Master Suite', Charles sometimes calls it, having plucked the half-bemused moniker from Erik's own mind. 

The metal-bender has paced these floors (concrete, covered incongruously with fine Persian rugs) and mocked its appointments (the opulent four-poster bed in particular), but he has also known immeasurable ecstasy in these confines. He has always been warm here, plied with good food and even better spirits. Even at his most unwilling, he has never known pain-- only fleeting discomfort. The pleasure and solace provided are an ocean against a single drop of rain. Lehnsherr himself has never truly believed in safe havens, and he still doesn't. The intellectual opinion hardly matters, though. His body believes this place is  
 _(sacred)_  
safe, and the corporeal memory rules.

 

 

_(The very first time he wakes, he does not even see the room. There is a veil, a fine film of warm alabaster as he comes to full consciousness; it is the first time he can remember not waking tensed and ready, desire to strike half-acted on without necessarily knowing why. It is strange, and it should be alarming. Instead, he lets it carry him, feels it undulate seductively behind his shoulder blades, firmly cradling his hips._  
\--Hush-- It says. --Be at ease-- _  
There's throbbing crater of pain, radiating outwards from the left side of his chest, but he is aware of it in a distant, academic fashion. 'That will hurt for a while,' he thinks but, unlike so many of his wounds, there is no sharply etched memory to go with it. Just this blunt static, warm snow. He knows the curve and shape of the hand that strokes his cheek before he knows anything else._

_Eyes open, and even that takes work. Even breaths in and out, no context but also no panic. The instinct to struggle should be there, he knows-- if anything is white, it is the treacherous, uneven sand. The beach where everyone faltered, where the harsh grains ground against bare hands and he wrestled with Charles for… for…_

_Charles is here. Curled protectively around him, propped up on one elbow, almost ethereal in the dim light. That smile could break a thousand hearts. He looks so happy, so grateful and _relieved_._

_"I am, Erik,'" Xavier murmurs, dropping little kisses on the older man's cheeks and forehead. 'Darling, of course I am. We're here, together, aren't we? You gave me a bad scare.'_

_Lehnsherr clenches a fist, finds a handful of smooth sheets and soft mattress in his grasp. There's no context to his surroundings at all-- just the drape of the canopy, and the curtains drawn in a hush all around the bedframe. The hangings are a grey-blue moire, and they cannot compete with Charles' eyes. That loving graze draws Erik's own, leaving him to lie content and almost thoughtless under his lover's regard._  
 _The professor is so beautiful when he's honestly pleased, blue orbs catching every nuance of that shade._  
'Charles wears his heart on his sleeve,' _Raven had said, early on. She'd actually been speaking to Moira, but Erik had heard and known that it was so. Hadn't he smiled like when Lenhsherr turned up in the morning, in that stuffy office at Langley…_

_'You decided to stay,' the Englishman says presently, as if calling forth the echo from Erik's own mind. The older mutant's attention is still held rapt by the gaze of his lover-- it pleases him when Charles is pleased, even if it also makes him want to hide that slight form behind his own. It does not do to broadcast happiness-- the world hardly tolerates it well. That's why they talk about 'small mercies'; portable, easy to conceal, to make off with in the night._

_"And I felt that, your protectiveness," the professor says, pressing kisses into Erik's hair. He nuzzles at the older man's sideburns, free hand stroking pulse-point, the arch of that strong neck. "The way you touched me-- so carefully!-- holding me close after you thought I'd fallen asleep."_

_"You're reading my mind," Lehnsherr says, and it really ought to sound more betrayed. Instead, its a dry little whisper, a dull surprise. "'Your word is your bond'? Remember?" Bad enough that he should want-- love-- Charles to such strength and extent; he had not intended to compound the error by leaving those depths open the telepath. They shared a bed, their bodies, but not their minds._

_There should be anger here-- a roil of explosive resentment, shame, fear at being vulnerable and the audacity of Charles going back on his word. He tries to reach for it, but it slips away, back under the white of the beach. Beyond that, lapping at the coast, inching ever closer, is the night ocean Xavier drew him sweetly down to. The metal-bender has a sudden stark flash of memory: Moira screaming, the demon kneeling in awe, and that fragile look on his young man's face.  
They'd told him to stop, and Charles hadn't. Erik had struggled to speak, but there hadn't been any words-- not in any language at his disposal. The professor had simply kept up the pressure on the left side of Erik's chest, all but ignoring the woman's death throes as he lovingly whispered for his friend to sleep. _

_It seems to take forever, but the older mutant lifts his hand to explore the dull ache in his shoulder and thoracic cage. The wound is covered-- cleaned and bandaged, with far more precision and care than Erik has ever wasted on himself. Charles stops him tugging at it, smoothing down the edges, almost petting around the gauze._

_"You took a bullet for me," Xavier reminds him, though its hardly necessary. It's odd for a telepath, but Charles has always placed an emphasis on the power of the spoken word._

_"More the fool, I," the metal-bender rasps. He doesn't mean it, could never mean it, and his lover doesn't even flinch._

_"Oh, Erik." So sweet, so endlessly patient. "I gave you my word, but all the cards are on the table now. I know you would die for me; you know I would kill for you." Warmth fills the older man, permeating to bone. He feels languid, treasured and spoiled and calm in a way that has always been unfamiliar to him. It's not Charles-- or, it's not _all_ Charles. He stares up at that beloved face, barely containing the faint smile that comes to his own stern lips. The professor kisses him anyway-- brief and chaste, and rolls away._

_After a moment's absence and a rustling of the curtains, Charles returns to their little nest. There's a glass of ice cubes in one hand, the sight of which makes Erik's throat constrict with awakened thirst. He berates himself, as much as he can, for the weakness. This is where it starts, the withholding and the bargaining, the 'oh, do you want this? well, then…'._

_Xavier shakes his head, looking for a moment tired and lost. Then he plucks up an ice cube, bringing it gingerly to Erik's lips, without a single word or question or demand. The sensation of cool liquid is heavenly. Lehnsherr laps at it-- getting more than a little of his lover's fingers in the bargain-- until it's small enough to fit comfortably in his mouth. One, two, and then a third. Charles is patient and watchful, cleaning up stray droplets with his own tongue._

_"Good?" the Englishman asks. The older mutant nods, but looks away. There's sound and movement, but he can't be bothered to track it, just drifting. It only becomes important when he hears the rustle of clothes, the duvet shifting as Charles joins him underneath the covers. The professor cuddles up against his captive, resting his head against the right side of Erik's chest, obviously mindful of the wound on the left. At the same time, his embrace is strong, almost clinging. He shelters himself with Lehnsherr's body, like a cat or small child encouraging touch. It's the same position Erik used to adopt, thinking the younger man asleep, ensuring he was between Charles and the door._

_There's a long pause, in which Erik's first instinct is to pull Xavier closer. He refrains, laying there still, already digging his internal trenches. Like any soldier fighting attrition, he doesn't give up ground paid for with anything less than blood._

_Finally, Charles does it _for_ him, moving the other man's limbs with frightening ease. Erik's trying to hold onto that-- the awe and terror of how _strong_ the telepath is-- when his lover once again disarms him, leaves him longing to clutch back._

_"I'm sorry," the young man whispers tenderly. "I can't let you go.")_

 

 

Presently, Erik finishes with the fire, setting the matches and poker back in their proper place. He lingers for a moment though, crouched on one knee, enjoying the warmth. Finally, he stands, methodically stripping off the clothes he donned this morning with Charles imminent return in mind. In black slacks and silk button-down shirt, he hardly looks noteworthy to the others. The shirt is plum, though, and therefore one of the professor's choices. Erik is willing to admit he looks good in it.  
 _'Really, darling,'_ Xavier would say, teasingly, _'there _are_ colors other than black.'_  
At which point Erik would remind the young scholar that, artistically, black is _all_ colors, so really it's a matter of efficiency. That usually got him soundly kissed, along with the observation that the school's administrator was certainly fond of splitting hairs. 

 

Folding the clothing neatly aside, the metal-bender strides nude towards the bathroom. Long ago, a raw and gangly Erik had decided it was impossible to be too clean or too well-dressed. Adolescent anger lent a sharp edge of the precision with which he began cultivating his appearance. A well-tailored suit can be like armor, but he is also not ashamed to be unclothed. Bodily confidence stems from simple factual observation-- he is a good physical specimen, he knows. At the same time, he's only ever registered his own aesthetics as a tool, which is why so much of Charles' praise melts the very marrow in his bones. Lehnsherr finds his young man devastatingly attractive, yes. He has eyes, and he is not a fool. But their fabled 'first sight' had been a telepathic one, a _knowing_ that seemed like aeons, but conquered the older mutant in a moment alone. 

 

Erik wants-- and he can barely admit this to himself-- to look pleasing

_('Beautiful', is what Xavier says. He actually uses the word 'beautiful'.)_

for Charles. The thought is not without its own little thorn of shame, but even that has a twist of pleasure hidden inside. The professor can do that, reach down within his lover and lift forth things of dark brilliance, as well as those of memory and light. It's a bit like the deep forests of his earliest childhood fables. Erik has always been ready to take on wolves and dragons, anything and everything that stood to oppose him, but Xavier came to him with the hand of friendship. One boy leading another-- tenderly, inexorably-- off the path and into the woods. 

 

Even if Charles should tire of him, send him away… Erik no longer believes he could go. He's bound now, with such intoxicating sweetness that it burns through to his core. The thought of freedom  
 _(loss)_  
is terrifying.  
Probably, almost inevitably, he would beg to stay.

 

_'Never, my heart,_ Charles whispers, mental presence so real and immediate that it's hard to believe he's still upstairs, discussing the conference with Hank. Molten affection slithers down Erik's spine-- spreading, revitalizing the delicate psychic cords he has so missed. During the professor's absence, they had faded to ghosts-- Charles can maintain them to a degree, but distance is always a factor, especially without Cerebro. 

_'I will never let you go, never send you away.'_ It is an ardent promise and a loving threat, braiding itself in the sensation of invisible bindings at his wrists, ankles, and throat. Lehnsherr quickly lifts an arm, gratefully kissing where the cuff would be. He can't really touch them, of course, but he knows the gesture thrills his captor all the same.

_'I shall hurry, I promise,'_ Charles projects, eagerness gathering around the older mutant like a fine incense haze. _'I told you, I brought you a gift.'_ Said longingly, straight through their private frequency to pierce the soul. _'Oh, my sweet boy.'_

 

Erik sends as strong an affirmative as he is capable of, shuddering in delight. The bonds are good, beloved tokens of ownership, but they do make things a bit more difficult. He braces himself against the bathroom sink for a moment, breathing deeply. He has not had Charles' hands on him in almost three weeks, and he is not permitted to use his own. 

_(Unless, of course, the professor is watching. Flushed, lips parted hungrily, whispering praise and encouragement until Erik forgets himself. Onanism with an audience is one of the few things that _does_ make him self-conscious, but it's easy to get lost in Charles' reverent avarice, in the sound of that proper accent fluctuating between filthy and sweet.)_

Lehnsherr presses his forehead against the cool mirror. He's worked very hard to be good-- one cannot dissemble to a telepath, nor would he try. Two little slips, is all; once, he'd woken upstairs from a dream of Charles, unconsciously grinding his own hardness into the narrow bed. He'd stopped the moment he'd become truly awake, and he technically didn't violate the rule. Still, he hates to be sloppy. The second time was much the same, save that he'd crept down-- aching and berating himself at the same time-- to sleep in their big and far too empty bed. The scent of Xavier still lingering had been a comfort and an intoxicant-- he'd come close, but stopped cold, clinging to iron control.

***** 

He marshals that willpower now, reaching into the nearby drawer for enema bag, hose, and nozzle. Grabbing the plastic one is deliberate-- he doesn't need the added tease of sensing the metal penetrating, especially if Charles isn't present to enjoy the show. He's learned to do this himself now, though it is not exactly his favorite chore. It doesn't have quite the same feel of his organs stretching, _accommodating_ , remains. It's not pain, and it's barely discomfort, but one of Erik's problems has always been interpreting his own body's signals. He is infinitely conversant in the differing textures of agony-- a head wound as opposed to internal bleeding, or a broken bone. These can be borne, as they cannot be ignored, but he often experiences lesser problems as only an annoyance. Something to push through, instead of remedying. 

One of Xavier's cardinal rules requires the older mutant pay attention to his body's complaints, before it gives out in protest. No running on cramping muscles, no scrubbing until his skin bleeds, and Lehnsherr is very much aware of the extra scrutiny he receives in the Danger Room. The professor will be checking on all of that, along with other hard-and-fast rules about the 'care and feeding' of his pet while they were apart. 

 

It's taken Charles a while to trust Erik with the enema on his own but, by now, the older mutant kneels in the claw-foot bathtub with the ease of experience. He keeps the water faintly cool to the touch of his fingers, knowing that even water that feels lukewarm can scald when applied internally. When the bag is filled, he hooks it to the towel-rack and gets on all fours, ensuring the angle and gravity cooperate to make for a slow fill. He'll do this a few times, so he's clean and ready for however it pleases Charles to use him, and then he'll shower. He shaved earlier this afternoon, but he might do so again, just to kill time. 

*****

No matter how much Charles may want to hurry, Lehnsherr knows that Hank is fairly starved for news of how their research was received. Xavier and McCoy make a team even more formidable than the CIA ever could have guessed. It's no longer the search for a cure, or anything other nonsense holy relic-- be it the grail of their kind, or an Excalibur to strike their unwitting adversaries down. Instead, the two scientists have already firmly out-paced their contemporaries in the field, and it puts them in a unique position to do damage control. Not only does their work benefit mutant-kind-- it provides the opportunity to to keep a watchful eye (and place the occasional red-herring) on what others might discover. Hank barely leaves the manor at all, even under the cover of darkness-- he corresponds with interested colleagues by mail, letting Janos crunch the raw numbers and act as general lab assistant. Charles tries to make up for this by ensuring McCoy always receives proper credit for his work, but the toll is taken all the same. The faint periwinkle strands of Beast's temple, and his tempestuous relationship with Raven are only the most obvious signs. 'Mystique', as she often calls herself now, has taken off to Harvard to pursue her own adult identity and ideals. 

There's a coolness between her and Charles now, though Erik knows the young woman doesn't actually suspect her brother of anything concrete. She was genuinely surprised and please when Erik 'returned' from three months of soul-searching, supposedly having fled to South America to recover from his wounds and the Missile Crisis alone. What she saw on the beach was enough-- informing a new discordance and care around her oldest friend and the man she once expressed romantic interest in. Charles, dear Charles, has let her go; his absolute rule makes him magnanimous, resolute in his tolerance as he weaves his many webs.

 

It is Erik that Charles turns to now, the way rare flowers bloom in breathless secret, waiting for the correct combination of moon and tide. It is not in the Rules _per se_ , but Xavier is still the metal-bender's _yakir_ , his _schatz_ \-- perhaps now, more than ever. For is not the man who lays claim changed by that fact of ownership, as well as the thing that is owned? Charles may have powers comparable to many a heathen god, but he is still a man-- a man who was once a boy. Lehnsherr takes care of his lover; it is his privilege, in a way that was never permitted when he demanded it as his right.

 

Moving cautiously, Erik tenses his muscles and moves with speedy caution towards the toilet. He doesn't quite have to rush the way he did that first time, but he still wishes the professor were here. Charles spoils him; pets and cossets him afterwards, teases him with telepathic doppelgängers during the act. It is amazing that one can feel so intimately clean, and still so deliciously used. 

 

 

Lehnsherr loses time a little, here-- not an uncommon occurrence, within these walls. Once he is in the rhythm of serving Charles, preparing to be a concession, it's easy to get lost in it. In this way, he finishes his absolutions with the enema, moving onto the warm spray of the shower. Hair and body washed, smelling of the faint evergreen soap Charles picked out himself, Erik is toweling away the last of the moisture from his sideburns when that beloved voice tolls in his mind. There's something about that lustrous velvet tone that makes him finally relax, releasing muscles he didn't even realize he was holding taught.

_'I'm here, my love,'_ Charles sends, every bit as longing the psyche he touches. The metal-bender has a moment to chastise himself-- he wanted to be out in the bedroom, kneeling on his blue cushion, patiently waiting when his professor arrived. Then he's throwing open the wooden door, absently using his powers to flick off the bathroom's harsh lights as he leaves. 

 

Xavier is sitting by the fire, enjoying the cascade of glow and warmth from where he's lounging on the divan. How one can look so prim and so indolent at once is quite beyond Erik, but he doesn't spend a lot of time contemplating the matter. His professor is an earthly sylph. Obviously tired from traveling, with a faint tang of sweat from the confines of the car, smelling of the clove cigarettes he smokes sparingly in the final stages of any research project-- a clear indicator of stress. Yet he is also wonderfully relaxed, a wild storm of happiness in his blue eyes, a goblet of Tokay dangling from one lithesome hand. The firelight always make his skin look beautiful, makes his hair dark with streaks of auburn, but it is even more enhanced tonight. He's wearing the silk shirt Erik folded aside earlier-- utterly unbuttoned, fabric draping naturally to draw the eye towards the y-fronts that are his only other garment. If Erik looks good in that deep, bruised shade of plum, then Charles looks… obscene. Beautiful in a way that's blasphemous, and-- for the love of creation!-- he _knows_ what it does to Erik to see the telepath wearing the older mutant's clothes. 

Erik wavers, ready to kneel, taking a few shaky steps forward when the professor motions him closer. The telepath is holding something in his other hand-- the metal he was blocking before, the feel of it fine and exotic even to the faintest edges of Lehnsherr's metal-sense. Somehow, the impulse to identify the object is greatly overshadowed by the fact Charles has been holding it for some time, warming the metal against his own flesh. It feels like another wave of decadence, being coddled in that stolen warmth. 

 

" _Neshama_ ," the taller man breathes. He has never called Charles 'master'-- it is not something he's capable of, and Xavier (for his own reasons) would never ask him to. Why should he, though? The need does not exist. Every one of the endearments, the pet names Lehnsherr used when he once bundled his lover up against him, have been reforged. Appropriated, as spoils after battle. _Liebchen_ , he would say, possessively thrusting; _mein schatz_ , trying to crawl up inside that heat and _own_. Pretty little words, trying to make his lover small enough to abscond with… titles of a liege-lord now. 

"Let me look at you," the professor says quietly. Erik obeys, jutting his hip in a way that shows his form to best advantage. His cock, already unruly during the bathing, hardens further, becoming at once pressing and utterly unimportant. He wants to touch Charles, so much his palms ache with it. Everyone else in the household has had their moment to welcome Xavier home.

 

"Sweetheart." Charles' smile gets a little watery, but he rises smoothly, taking a sip of citrine wine before setting it aside. When the metal-bender is close enough, the younger man tips his face up, passing the sweet nectar along in a kiss. It's always been a little too sugary for Erik, but the flavor is infinitely enhanced by the professor's own, unique taste. They swallow together, reunite and stroke tongues, melting the kiss into a feast of mouths. There's a hand on the older mutant's cheek, as Charles opens his other palm to reveal the gift. 

 

It's a weave of silver and some other, more unusual ore-- one burnished to almost shining white, the other a gleaming and almost inky black. They come together in a braid, just long enough to be a man's necklace, most of which Lehnsherr has seen produced as smooth gold chain. This is infinitely more lovely, almost like intricate rope. On his own neck, it will rest just above his clavicle, safely hidden by pull-overs and dress-shirts. 

A collar.

 

There's a little gasping sound, and Erik _is_ on his knees, at last kneeling between Xavier's strong yet dainty feet. He meant to do something spectacular, use his hands and mouth to ensure Charles was swamped in pleasure after the irritations of travel, but all he can do is throw his arms around that slim waist. Pressing his face into warm silk and warmer, bare flesh of taunt stomach, he holds on with every last bit of strength. Charles' own arms come around him, empty hand carding through his hair, tracing lovingly against his shoulders. 

_'Meant to show you… missed you… oh, Charles, so _much_…_ He thinks distractedly, conscious mostly only of his lover's presence-- the mental and physical touch of his being. He kisses against the jut of Xavier's hip, shakes his head a little, but otherwise doesn't move. _'Stupid.'_

"No, not at all," the telepath responds, echoing the verbal statement with something _more_ than mere mental articulation. The feeling is all around Erik; the beautiful starless sea. 

"Little one, what I wanted most of all was to come home to my sweet boy."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Collaring finished in the next chapter, my hand to g-d. *side eyes the entire chapter* I'm going to hell. At least it's warm. ;-)Also hoping to have more 'Headlong Toward the Starry Sea' before another chapter of this. *crosses fingers*  
> Glossary:  
>  _Neshama_ \- one of the Hebrew words for 'soul'. Meaning the intelligent, reasoning part of the spirit. Also a term of extreme affection, sometimes not without a hint of irony.  
>  _schatz_ \- (German) treasure, purpose  
>  _liebchen_ \- (German) sweetheart, beloved  
>  _yakir_ \- (Hebrew) 'dear', as addressed to a male [the female form is 'yakira']


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I swear to G-d I'm still working on 'Headlong'… really, I am. Apparently, however, p0rn waits for no one. ^_~ I also have a kinky dom!Erik story I'm actually trying to finish before I start posting. We'll see how that works out. Not much to say about this chapter, save that we finally finish the collaring. And there is absolutely no redeeming social value here. Sorry 'bout that. Enormous thanks, as always, to the wonderful OP. The prompt from the meme is [here](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/8700.html?thread=18454524#t18454524)\-- several very talented people did fills, so I encourage you to check it out! I also really, really want to thank Sanlyn, Ook, and JenniferC77 for their wonderful comments and analysis. Actually, I adore everyone who commented-- you all made this a better story, and I can't express my gratitude. Comments completely make my day, so if you have a fancy to leave even one word, I'd be forever in your debt!
> 
> **TW for this chapter:** Mind-control, irresponsible use of telepathy, collaring, flashbacks to possessive!Erik, nipple-play, sensory-play, mutation as a component of sexuality. Service!Top, dirty talk, power imbalance, orgasm denial/delay, condescending pet names. Meredith's distressing purple prose. Dark!Charles being sweet and besotted. Also, Erik has gotten so bad Stockholm is side-eying him. 
> 
> * * * * * * * *

"Little one, what I wanted most of all was to come home to my sweet boy." 

 

The pleasure from those words rocks Erik back on his heels. His arms remain loosely twined around Xavier's waist-- partly for balance, but also because he's so starved for his young man that he isn't sure he could let go unless specifically asked. Charles doesn't seem to mind, though, even when Lehnsherr slips his hands under the pilfered silk shirt to get at that pale, far more desirable skin. There's a sweet little indentation there, just at the small of the professor's back, that Erik loves to lave with his tongue. Though really, if there exists a part of Charles' body Erik hasn't put his mouth on, it is a gross oversight indeed.

Distantly, the older mutant registers that his own thumbs are stroking gently against that delicate vertebra. Most of his attention is actually focused on regulating his breathing, and watching the play of emotions over Charles' face. The collar is beautiful, a work of art, but those eyes… Dark sapphire with reverent, confident possession, they transfix him as nothing else can. He lets that gaze capture him, sinking into it with his mind the way his metal-sense is sinking into the collar. Each link becomes an extension of self; the slide of silver like delicate arctic fur. The darker strand is a pure element Erik has not personally encountered before.

 

"It's black rhodium," Xavier tells him, deftly lacing the chain around and between his thin fingers. Helplessly, Lehnsherr whines a little in the back of his throat. It feels as if his own form is wrapped around those elegant digits, experiencing the warmth of skin and strength of tapering bone. The metaphor is an appropriate one, and he sees Charles smile boyishly as he catches the thought. 

"Quite rare, or so I'm given to understand. The jeweler assured me it's a unique piece, and very fine," the professor continues, a faint blush riding high on his cheeks. "I wanted to bring you something exotic."

 

It _is_ exotic-- as tempting and difficult to pin down as incense from a remembered dream. Erik experiences every metallic element, and their associated ores, differently. The fact his mutant sense can locate items magnetically makes 'seeing' the easiest comparison to make, but his gift is actually more closely entwined with touch. Lehnsherr is the son of a seamstress-- versed not only in different types of needles and stitching, but also in the texture of fabrics. Metal spools and thimbles were among his earliest 'playmates', second only to the tin soldiers Vater bought for him. Not much of that dim, before-time is readily accessible, but it is very easy to remember the flash of the needle in the firelight. Mama's precise, careful movements; wielding it like a fairy's sword, thrusting up and down. Her embroidery was always stunning, though there wasn't much call for it-- and even her practical stitching seemed possessed of a fluidity and grace. There was a spool of blue silk thread, once-- expensive, but paid for by the client-- bound up so that it shone like polished coins, brilliant and confusing in a way that held the attention of Mrs. Lehnsherr's toddler for hours. 

 

" _Liebling--_ " Erik swallows past the dryness in his throat, trying to find words.

"Like silk, then?" Xavier asks kindly, shadowing his own psychic tendrils along the older mutant's senses and associations. 

"Heavier, though," the metal-bender responds dreamily. "Pleasantly heavy, like…" Like Charles' hand at the back of his neck, like that fathomless mind pulling him down to be loved and held. There's a feeling of safety, too, embedded in this. A sense of shelter against some ongoing storm, a feeling of security the adult Erik has never quite believed in. 

"Hmmm," the professor murmurs. His eyes slip half-closed, that he might better envision his lover's mind. Sometimes the older man finds it hard to credit that there is anything there worth seeing, much less marveling over again and again. Charles brushes his thumb soothingly against Erik's pulse and jaw, matching it to the play of gentle touches in Lehnsherr's mind. "That's not for you to decide, though, is it?"

"No, _yakir_."

 

"Indeed." The professor's psyche withdraws a little, just enough to draw their attention back to the physical world. Charles lets the collar coil back in one cupped palm, plucking up the clasp and bringing it close for Erik's inspection. It takes a moment for his mundane sight to focus, but the older man is easily able to pick out the small inscription in the firelight. 

_C.F.X._

 

The twist of desire in his gut is a live wire, so potent he bares his neck by instinct alone. A gift from Charles-- a mark, a brand, which Erik has longed for but been denied. The professor will not mark permanently mark his lover's body, will not make unvarnished pain a part of their sex-play. Charles is not _all_ gentle touches, but he prefers them, holding Erik down and lavishing pleasure until the other man forgets himself enough to truly enjoy it. Good behavior is rewarded, cultivated and encouraged until the thought of rebellion is a distant dream, and any straining against bonds is done not for the sake of escape, but simply to feel how utterly oneself is held in place. 

Yet Lehnsherr's form bears the signature of so many others. The desecrated flesh of his inner arm; the puckered scars of Shaw's needles and cigarette burns. There's even a long, jagged graze down his side, from a foe who grabbed a broken chair-leg in the middle of a barroom brawl. 

 

Despite Hank's serviceable stitching and Xavier's best efforts, Erik still wears the bullet scar from Cuba. Charles bandaged and cared for it with a determined sort of tenderness, applying ointments and topical medications, encouraging the jagged lines to blur as they healed. No man can take a gunshot and have nothing to show for it, though-- at least, that's not something within the realm of Erik's gift. The crater remains, a ghost of flesh and shadow; not over his heart, but close. The bullet had gone into the muscle of his shoulder, and he'd taken that searing pain to spare Charles. In Erik's secret under-mind, that _makes_ the scar Xavier's. The remnant of a life-altering touch, as men are marked by holy fire. 

It displeases the telepath to hear such thoughts, of course, even if he knows they are instinctual, and something Erik cannot change. The professor also knows his lover fears few things more than being _operated_ on, particularly without his consent. It doesn't matter if the scalpel is a rusty, medieval lancet, or the sharp edge of a brilliant mind-- the terror itself does not change. So Xavier tolerates these cravings and his lover, in turn, does his best to let them lie still in the dusty chambers of his own subconscious, inert and un-indulged. 

Now, here is a collar; tangible and real. If not written in his skin, then worn against it, which is the next best thing. 

 

Lehnsherr can feel Charles watching him, but the collar remains cupped in that pale-yet-stained palm. There is a part of Erik-- a large part-- that loves being Xavier's boy, his precious pet. There is another part that is also quietly and logically ashamed, equating the end of struggle with the cessation of life. It comes to him, sometimes, on his solo runs in the mornings, when the day to day grind of the human world chafes against his ambitions. 

Now, he lifts his gaze without raising his head, eyes on that sweet twist of metal. Oh, he wants it, but he is not sure he can say the words. If Charles makes him ask for it…

"Ah, but you don't have to," the professor informs him, each syllable a caress. The telepath kisses the chain,

_(it feels as if he is kissing Erik _all_ _over_)_

lets it dangle, before looping it around his lover's neck in one smooth motion. The clasp has a complicated hook and catch, locking securely in place. "It is yours, whether you ask for it or not."

Erik shivers, his delight also a quiet sort of awe. The thrill goes straight to his cock, which begins suddenly and emphatically making its desires known. He wonders if Charles would let him take himself in hand, beat off at his _liebchen_ 's feet as if he doesn't know any better.

"I have other plans for that," Xavier reminds him, with a quick pinch and tug on the older mutant's ear. "Though your images are as tempting as ever. Stand up, my love, so I can see how pretty you look."

 

The older man rises, spine straightening under that azure scrutiny, and the cloyingly fond word-choice. He stands feet apart, shoulders firm but not stiff; almost at parade rest, so the professor might better inspect his property. The glow of Charles' mental approval is sweeter than the warmth from the fire. Chasing that psychic caress is a more physical, but no less pleasurable, touch. Slim fingers trail covetously down his flank, the curve of his ass. 

"You're gorgeous when you're like this," Charles says, leaning close. "Gorgeous when you're mine."

"Which is 'always'," Erik points out, mischief quirking just the corner of his mouth.

The pale hand moves down to cup his balls-- not a painful hold, but one firm, and full of intent. "Such cheek," the telepath scolds lightly. "Did my absence make you feel entitled to such leniency?"

The other mutant shakes his head-- so suddenly and with such force that it startles his master into honest, boyish laughter. "Charles, I promise I--"

"I know, love." A finger against his lips. "I know how hard you tried to be good-- and you succeeded."

 

Erik releases a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, resisting the urge to brazenly reach for his young man. He feels so pathetically grateful to have Charles back; yet, at the same time, the emotion rankles. He loves the hand on the reins even as he curbs the instinct to buck against it. The collar is beautiful, but he wants it tighter, wants Charles to want him with the violent passion Lehnsherr still keeps locked in the depths of his own heart. Even now, he can sense the tiny particles of iron in the professor's veins. The essential rhythm of it is like the tide of some distant moon, and he matches it without any real conscious thought. As unique as a fingerprint, as the helix twist of Xavier's DNA. Erik _wants_ , and he casts a pleading look at the telepath, even as he balls his hands into fists.

 

_(It is more than a memory, this thing that passes between them-- it is two perspectives intertwined. Like a concave glass, it reflects two horizons. At first similar yet disparate, they arch smoothly, slowly closer to one another until they merge. Impressions of the Time Before; the advent of their union, but also an era of separateness. Erik, on one side, a devastating maelstrom of life-long anger and utterly unfamiliar tenderness. The more he touches Xavier-- holding the young man, drinking down their pleasure-- the more he _wants_. It is not a thing that can be fed. A maw, a raw and open wound. Dangerous, distracting; but every time he resolves to cool things down, he's drawn back into the burning again._

_And Charles, who keeps giving though he knows his lover will not be sated, bound by the rules Lehnsherr insists upon. Erik mades demands, even as he takes the professor into his own warm channel. 'Give it to me, give it to me,' as he fucks himself on the younger mutant, as if orgasm can be wrested away, or stolen. The metal-bender _inflicts_ pleasure, trying to reach inside Charles even as he forbids the reverse. If Erik is burning, then the telepath is all but frozen solid. Crouched over faint embers, the emotive echoes and those thoughts he can't help but overhear during physical intimacy. He hoards what little warmth he has, trying to nurture it, make it suffice.)_

 

There's no use hiding these thoughts, these memories, in the present-- and Erik would not try to. He desires to bind because he is bound, to possess as he is possessed. He lowers his gaze, hands still at his sides, silently asking for help. Charles will give him everything… _everything_ … but he cannot ask, nor can he take. He wants to very much to be good, but sometimes that is a hard task, indeed.

 

"Shhh…" Xavier murmurs. "I know, I know. You _are_ good, my good boy, and you know I'll always help you." Those beautiful, invisible cords tighten, even if the collar cannot. They are warm in a way that transcends physical description. They pulse, whisper to Erik in voices under language, speaking words he does not know yet almost understands. With his free hand, Charles brushes back a stray lock of his lover's hair. The other hand maintains its intimate hold. 

"I think we can get you all the way down tonight, my love." An impish, utterly disarming smile. "What do you think?"

Slowly, the metal-bender releases another long breath. "Whatever pleases you, Charles."

"It pleases me," Charles says slowly, deliberately, "to indulge my pet."

Erik is incredibly aware of his own hardness, held with such loving vulnerability, but it is rapidly diminishing in importance. Better is the knowledge that the professor is touching him, that he himself is holding still, not rutting against that elegant hand. Charles is pleased when he is good; he is good when he pleases Charles. 

 

"Darling." The telepath leads him ever-so-gently by that grip, backing quietly to towards the divan. With a regal nod, he bids the older mutant sit. Lehnsherr does so gingerly, grimacing with the effort of denial as he cock is released. He keeps his back straight, both feet planted firmly on the floor. The professor sends him layers of emotive softness--  
 _(you are safe, you are wanted… all is well, you are loved…)_  
\-- steady, hypnotic. 

"My Only," Charles tells him. That beautiful voice is like the vibration of a cello string when plucked. Erik feels it in the marrow of his bones, along his insides where he is sure Charles' name is written. He loves the way the young man's accent clings along the vowels. And the fire in those eyes! A blue that incinerates. "My Own."

Then, as a whisper, "Undress me."

 

The older mutant obeys methodically-- without hesitance, but also without being overly eager. _Andante_ , they call it in music. Erik is no artisan, but remembers enough from his very early youth (Bach, of exquisite mathematical architecture!) to appreciate beauty in harmonic construction. Charles sets the pace-- a true musician does not play the music, but is a conduit instead. Big hands pull down the y-fronts, helping the younger man step out of them. Xavier nods his further permission, grinning with unabashed happiness as he kicks the offending garment away. Now Lehnsherr takes those exquisitely delicate shoulders in his grasp, smoothing over the body-warm silk. Palms flat, he runs his hands down Charles' slim chest, pausing to feel those dear little nipples harden. They pearl obligingly under his touch, the fabric of the shirt concealing them just enough to make the tiny buds even more tantalizing. Erik gives each a brief nuzzle through the thin barrier, before divesting the professor entirely. The plum silk hits the floor with a whisper. Knees parting, the metal-bender watches his lover step nimbly into the space provided. He leans forward, and is indulged with a quick kiss, before turning his attention to his coral-colored charges. 

" _Otzar katan_." Xavier's nipples are extremely sensitive-- he enjoys having the played with almost as much as Erik enjoys playing with them. The older mutant isn't sure why he finds the secondary sex characteristic so attractive, nor does he particularly care. He has had other lovers-- a handful only, yes, but of both sexes-- but none possessed an asset, similar or no, it so delighted him to fixate upon. No matter. It is of consequence only that he loves them, their fine color against the pale English skin, the little star-bursts of pleasure Charles lets him experience vicariously. That it stimulates Charles so is wonderful, but Erik finds playing with those nipples to be a reward in and of itself. He feels safe, drowsy and wanting as he gently sucks, smacking his lips against them for effect.

_"Kochanie moje."_ He presses close, cupping the telepath's shoulder blades, treating each nipple to the subtle texture of his freshly shaven cheek. The Polish is rare, but appropriate-- he tends to very soppy about his darlings.

"O-oh," Charles says, one long melodic sound. "That's good." He strokes the back of Erik's neck, down along the collar and its lovely clasp. "So good…" The thread of thought dips into inarticulate warmth, then picks up again in Lehnsherr's mind. _('What a dear boy I have. You'd be happy to make me come just like this, wouldn't you? Some days, I think you could.')_

 

_('If it pleases you,')_ Erik responds. It's just about the only thought in his head right now, aside from the constant, harmonic chant of _'charlescharlescharles'_. 

"Would I neglect you so?" the professor asks aloud. He scrapes his nails, lightly but deliberately, against his lover's shoulders. Regretfully, the metal-bender bestows a final kiss on each bud. Charles motions gravely, gracefully, to the length of the couch itself. 

Unthinking, Lehnsherr assumes the position; hands and knees, arse in the air, waiting for inspection. The divan is long, but Erik is a tall man. It is easier for Charles to take him this way, unless the professor wishes to have his lover draped over the curved side. 

 

At first, all goes as expected. Xavier delicately traces a finger along the curve of Erik's ass, down to spread the cheeks and ensure his pet has been properly looking after himself. He wiggles a little, arching into the single finger that finds him clean and thoroughly prepared. 

"Good boy," Charles praises, a croon. He parts the older mutant's arse-cheeks. "You wink at me so, dear. Did you miss me?"

His own voice is small, almost foreign. "Yes."

"Dear little cockslut." Almost coy. "Poor hungry hole."

" __Charles__ \--" Erik makes a little noise-- a squeak he'd never admit to in the light of day-- when his young man places a single chaste kiss on the sphincter.

"On your back, dearest."

Erik mewls in distress. 

 

"Easy," the professor soothes. He helps Lehnsherr turn over in the narrow space, reaching down for the metal-bender's dominant hand. This he leads to his own pert, pale behind, so Erik can feel that Charles is also slick and ready. "My priceless whore. My stud." He straddles the taller man in a quick, practiced movement. "You'll stay hard for me, won't you? I want to hold you."

Erik may have heart-failure before that is accomplished. He's vaguely aware that he's chanting 'please' in every language he's even vaguely fluent in, that both his hands are now fisted in the cushions and he's probably smearing them with lube. Charles pauses, poised to sink down, hovering with those swimmer's muscles flexing in a magnificent play of light and shadow. He braces against the back of the divan with one elbow, allowing his free hand to caress the collar. His balance is quite a feat-- Erik would be impressed, if he had anything coherent left in his head. 

"Do you know why you didn't have to ask for this?" One slim finger hooks in the collar. 

_("pleasepleasepleaseplease")_

"Words, love."

"Please, Charles, _please_ …"

The telepath sinks down slowly, taking his lover into that deep heat, consuming him. His muscles flex carefully around Lehnsherr's cock, so-oh-tempting, but the older mutant knows he doesn't have permission to come. Instead, he is held, imprisoned in that bliss, the edge where the dawn first touches the earth. That first blush; pink like the heart of a grapefruit, like Charles' tongue as the professor toys with him. 

"Suppose you had run from me, somehow," Xavier considers calmly. He sits, utterly pristine, poised atop Erik as if he could preside over a lecture from this position-- and the taller man doesn't doubt that he could. 

"No-oh," Erik manages. _(nevergo… charlescharles… yours… keepmeallyours…)_

 

"Exactly!" It comes out so pleased and honest. The Englishman blushes, in fact-- almost shy about the victory. That's the thing about Charles Xavier; at his core there is still something so genuine, so implicitly sweet that it touches even the darkest parts of him with the faintest glow of gold. "This still would have been yours," he continues softly. Confidingly. "No matter where you went… what cesspool or wilderness you tried to lose yourself in. I would have been there, the moment you closed your eyes. In your dreams." He's beginning to move now, still toying with the chain. Erik's body is the metal, each link in its brushing grip, but also the honeyed charge that spreads through his lover, and then the own copper coolness of his own delight. The sensory input is astonishing. _('Would have been there with you.')_ Even Charles is beyond words, now. _('I wouldn't have wanted my boy to be lonely. We would have spent every night together, you and I, while I gave you all the exquisite debaucheries you've ever imagined. All sorts of filthy little luxuries you've never even contemplated. You know I love to give you what you want. And, eventually…')_

The answer crashes against Lehnsherr with all the inevitability of a wave, of a baroque crescendo. Charles is powerful-- phenomenally so-- and, with Cerebro, his reach is unlimited. There would have been literally nowhere the erstwhile assassin could have gone; no city crowded enough, no mountain so remote. The professor would have been there, plying him with drugged ambrosia in his dreams, wearing him down as whole islands are engulfed by eons and sea. He can see himself very clearly, stumbling back to the mansion in Westchester in absolute but irresistible defeat. Bleary and half-mad from sleep deprivation… 

Charles doesn't like that thought. _('I would have taken care of you. My beloved,')_ he sends with tender reassurance. _('Put some good, warm food in you; tucked you up all nice and safe in our big, comfortable bed.')_ Erik remembers all the little touches, the coddling and caresses he received while recovering from the gunshot wound. His pride would not have let him accept that tenderness, no matter how much he enjoyed or wanted it, but his pride wasn't part of the equation. Just Charles, lavishing pleasure-- comforts, emotional and physical-- on an utterly unprepared captive, filling him with a feeling of undeniable power even as he was stripped bare. 

 

_('I would have begged you to touch me,')_ Erik confesses, though the sentiment actually lacks words. There's just a general idea, a slew of images; Charles, curled chastely by his side, each touch full of physicality and affection but utterly devoid of sexual intent. _(Begged you to make me your whore. Sucked your cock until my jaw was aching, crawled to you on hands and knees…)_

"Erik," Charles says, sounding almost helpless himself. "Sweetheart, c'mon…"

Lehnsherr struggles for the last bare threads of his control. He's bitten his lip-- he must have, because he can taste the coppery trickle. He adjusts the angle of his hips subtlety, looking for that perfect point of pressure and friction. Charles comes; spurting white strips across Erik's chest as that powerful mind becomes a singing flame. 

" _Neshama…_ " Erik intones, filled with reverence and possession and a thousand other violent affections he has no name for. Charles doesn't fight for things the way most people do-- he doesn't take or conquer. 

"I would like your surrender," the telepath says charmingly, having read the thought even as the last waves of pleasure shudder through his form. 

And that's just it. The professor wants to woo capitulation from his lover, seduce him to be enslaved. 

 

"You have it." His mouth is utterly dry, but Erik yields joyfully, each nerve alive and owned.

" _Very good._ " The praise burns into his flesh. "You may."

 

The orgasm doesn't hit Erik-- instead he is submerged in it, happy to drown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +black rhodium looks like [this](http://demando.net/rhodium.jpg).  
> + _yakir_ \- Hebrew. 'Sweetheart', masculine. (The female form is 'yakira'.)  
> + _otzar katan_ \- Hebrew. 'Little treasures'.  
> + _kochanie moje_ \- Polish. 'My delight'.  
> + _neshama_ \- Hebrew. 'Soul'. (Meaning the intelligent, reasoning part of the spirit. Also a term of extreme affection, sometimes not without a hint of irony). 
> 
>  
> 
> All linguistic errors are solely the fault of the author, because Hebrew class was a *long-ass* time ago. ^^;
> 
> … and this is so _not_ what I'm supposed to be using it for. X_x


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we need some sub!Erik pr0n up in here-- what do you think? Not to mention some dark!Charles. ^_~
> 
> Yeah. Have 27KB of sex, brief discussion of military strategy and poetry, and the even more sex. There's little to no redeeming social value here, and I think we're all okay with that. ;-) Heed the trigger warnings/enticements, since this is an ultimately dub-con situation (or, at least, Erik's so far down the Stockholm rabbit hole that he doesn't know up from down ^^;). 
> 
> As always, I can't thank you enough for taking the time to read my story! If I could trouble you just a bit more to comment or leave kudos, I'd be very appreciative.  
> Extra, enormous, inter-dimensional props to **silverxrain** for the encouragement and **valancysnaith** for the awesome discussions that led to some serious CPR for this fic. 
> 
> **Trigger Warnings:** collaring, begging during sex, discussion of hostile interspecies tactics and Erik's general blood-thirsty nature, vague references to medical/scientific ethics violations ala DoFP, PTSD, psychic bondage, condescending sweet-talk and pet names during sex.
> 
>  **Additional Warnings(/Enticements):** service top, mentions of fisting, discussion of poetry and quantum physics during sex (don't look at me like that! ^_~), anal fingering, prostate massage, forced orgasm, possessive behavior, general oral fixation.

Erik never looses time when he's with Charles. Even in the darkness beyond the twin pinnacles of their pleasure, he experiences no gap in perception. It is not a void, but a well of expansive and momentary infinity. His own orgasm is powerful, and Charles rides it in that same smooth efficiency of motion with which he stays balanced astride Lehnsherr's hips and cock. 

_'(You are beautiful,')_ the metal-bender thinks, though his eyes are shut as he gasps for breath. He can still see Xavier though, in what is conventionally referred to as the 'mind's eye'. Even more than mundane sight, what he translates as that final vision is stylized by emotional perception, and he will not apologize for it. The old prickle of shame is still present, that he should be observed stooping to such idolatry but-- where he once might have killed to keep this aspect of his love a secret-- he is now simply rebelliously possessive of it. Bending to angle himself against the older mutant's chest, Charles looks in those final undulations like some sort of mer-creature effortlessly taming the ocean in which he has long held Lehnsherr ensorcelled. 

"And you always make me look so lovely, dearest," the professor replies, accent crisp despite the quick tempo of his own breathing. Having wrested as much physical pleasure as possible from both their forms, Xavier's powerful psyche hovers briefly over expanding the current conquest to the less limited delights of the mind. Still embraced and imprisoned by his lover's flesh, Erik shudders from deep behind his hips, savoring as the tremors transfer into the slighter form above. It is an involuntary response of both fearful joy and greedy anticipation. 

 

Charles has, on more than one occasion, spent the entire night (and even blush-colored hours of morning) mentally bent over the delicate metal strata of his lover's mind. The image he shares with Erik is like that of bismuth crystals, which form in natural angular perfection. He sees the metal-bender's essence almost as an electric charge, animating miniature ziggurats of seductively alien geometry, in all coruscating and impossible color. It's an over-extended metaphor but, like Erik, there are certain indulgences for which Xavier refuses to apologize. Mixing elemental physics and pillow-talk is just one of them. A pluck, a coo, a delicate 'breath'-- these perceptions slide covetously through Erik's mind, wringing countless purely mental orgasms from him while the telepath waits for their bodies to recover. Indeed, Xavier is sometimes disinterested in satisfaction for his own physical form, preferring instead to examine the craftsmanship of each sensation he lovingly inflicts on his partner. Charles has always maintained that Erik's pleasure feels quite different from his own and, deep down, Lehnsherr receives an atavistic thrill at being able to provide his _liebling_ , his adored one, with yet another offering. 

Charles has had Erik weeping with ecstasy and exhaustion, clinging to consciousness due only to verbal command, begging for relief and further stimulation all at the same time. The professor is a tender and devoted torturer, kissing and stroking his captive, returning always to delve yearningly into the cup formed by firm lips and chiseled jaw. His love-talk is all praise, expressions of devotion, couched in his sweetly condescending mastery of the other man and peppered with transcendent filth. 

 

"My precious pet," Xavier murmurs presently, even as he is forced to allow Erik's withdrawal. The telepath shifts himself ever-so-slightly to nestle between the curved back of the divan and the older mutant's solid warmth. He strokes the member that so recently finished servicing him as though it is a separate entity-- another pet, which must be as cosseted and soothed from the high as Erik himself. "In a way," Charles chuckles low, responding to what is only really a half-conscious analogy. "It _is_ lovely." The scribe's fingers move quickly, wickedly, to cup Erik in a gentle harness. 

The other mutant's swift intake of breath is soft, but still clearly audible in the almost sacred space between them. He wants to beg, and refrains. From pride, or lack of permission? The answer used to matter, long ago. 

"So warm," Charles continues. "That pulsing flutter in my hand, like a little dove." This last is followed by a tingling wave of reassurance, unnecessary but much appreciated. Erik has nothing to be ashamed of in that department, but it is the unique privilege of a telepath's lover to enjoy comfort and a little humiliation in the same addicting cocktail. He is lengthier than Charles, but without as much girth-- a description that has his mind wandering back to the as-yet-unutilized preparations he made in the bath. His attention is not allowed to wander for long, and Lehnsherr quirks a smile in embarrassment and pleasure as the object of their discussion stirs again to Charles' spell. "I like to hold it," the professor finishes, tilting those vivid lips up for a kiss as Erik meets him more than half-way. "It's almost as well behaved as you are." 

With a final lingering caress, Charles stretches luxuriously, folding his hands under his cheek as he wriggles to find just the right little niche. Lehnsherr does not bother to hide his chuckle, even when the younger man makes a pillow of his lover's broad chest. There is little in Xavier's mood or visage to inspire feline comparisons; simply his curiosity, and one small idiosyncrasy only Erik is privy to.

 

Normally, the metal-bender perceives Charles' will as a molten flow of his own element, as elegant and sweet as it is absolutely powerful and tenacious. Yet, unlike metal, which can be cast, the tendrils of Xavier's psyche are a flow of liquid iridescence which refuses to be molded or checked. The telepath feels at home in his lover's mind to a degree that can never be duplicated. Charles heard its siren call that first night, like the ringing of grand bells in some lost ocean city, and sought Erik out just as the sailors of old. Where the minds of the untamed masses sometimes press in on the professor, with their nauseous profusion and outré variations on 'reality', he and Lehnsherr-- for all the dissimilarity in temperament-- are perfectly suited. Erik can feel his _liebling_ move within his consciousness, especially in these quiet moments. Stretching with all the extensiveness of a kitten yawning, front paws down and blue eyes tightly shut as it kneads its chosen haven. Just like that borrowed image (which Erik dimly remembers from some old mill in which he took shelter), Charles' psyche then relaxes altogether, replete with the pleasure of their companionship.

 

Presently, Xavier 'bats' gently at Erik's comparison, but it is only a token gesture. By now, he's used to the varied-- and sometimes contradictory-- metaphors Lehnsherr's brain provides. The older mutant will never be a telepath-- he can only feel the professor's touch in a world of darkness, his own numb fumblings into the void based solely on faith that Charles will hear him.

_('Always,')_ his dear one murmurs, below language and into the almost tactile perception of that ephemeral _thing_ even Lehnsherr is tempted to call a soul. _('I will always find you. Even if I lost myself, I will always know where and who you are.')_

Unable to restrain his mental 'blush', Erik focuses on throwing a leg over Xavier's, covering the smaller body while imposing as little of his own weight as possible. Their sweat and spend are drying as their heartbeats even, and Erik wants his beloved sovereign to be as warm in their snatched physical paradise are they are together in mind. For his own part, Charles impishly borrows from his lover's earlier image, lapping delicately at where his own seed is splattered over the metal-bender's chest.

 

"How was the conference?" Erik asks, both from genuine interest and the need for a distraction from the erotic sight. He scolds himself for his lack of energy. The children are not *so* high maintenance that he shouldn't have vigor for his _neshama_ 's desires. Caregiving doesn't come all that naturally to the former assassin, but he has genuine affection for his charges-- though their energy and capacity for mischief are sometimes perplexing. If bottled, one could easily conquer a nation with it.

"Somewhat exhausting as well, I'm afraid," Charles says, unsuccessfully hiding a yawn as he cuddles closer. "Very interesting and productive, though. A brief stroll past the United Nations was also illuminating."

"What prompted that?" Lehnsherr inquires, stroking the younger man's hair. He knows that wasn't on the original itinerary. 

"A stray thought from a young and rather over-worked grad student, doing fetch-and-carry for one Dr. Bolivar Trask." Quickly, Xavier telepathically displays the sequence events. Basic flashes of memory; the graduate student's frustration with Trask's less-than-personable demeanor and his tendency to weaponize any scientific discovery he encountered. Similarly, Erik can see that a good deal of the man's ambition has been checked. Trask's contact in the UN had hardly taken a liking to him, and Charles' little side-trip has accentuated this distrust. Morever, the telepath pushed a figure on Trask's calculations off by a thousandth of an amphere. The secret weapons demonstration planned for the following week will be an abysmal failure.

"A man like that will not be deterred by one defeat," Erik says, though it's hard not to smile at the deft and infinitesimal manipulations Charles so prefers. Chess may be the professor's game of choice but _Go_ \-- its strategies calculated with literally hundreds of zeroes-- is a better comparison in terms of his strategy for mutantkind. 

"No," the telepath acknowledges, pinching his lover's ear just slightly in reproof. "And there may come a time when I permit you to deal with him as you will." While the words may sound like a concession, they are anything but. Erik cannot completely stifle his own helpless little noise, nor the brief but wanton cant of his hips, at the thought of Charles _allowing_ him to take more extreme measures. 

 

In the world above-- the 'real' world with its material considerations and proper roles to play-- Erik and his professor are almost always equals. Their school is a culmination of two dreams, providing both a safe haven and a potential fortress for their growing species. Together, Lehnsherr and Xavier do everything from planning investments and developing curriculum, to breaking up scuffles and contributing to household chores. Segments of his old life have mingled with the practicality of making an ideal manifest and, while Erik is grateful, no previous version of himself could have imagined this future for himself. Charles reigns in the metal-bender's violence; calls upon him to release the choking enemies, deflect bullets, drop missiles, and let the foot-soldiers live. So, should Charles ever deem it necessary to stretch out a hand for punishment, Erik will joyfully be his sword. 

"Far too precious for something as simple as a blade, my love," the professor says. One regal finger hooks itself around Lehnsherr's new collar, and the older mutant bucks again, feeling both the physical warmth of the digit and an overwhelming mental sense of his lover's ownership. He wants so badly to be filled. Always, he is happy to serve Charles with his cock-- to serve in any capacity, really, since Xavier rarely gives orders outside of sexual congress. All the same, he wants his _neshama's_ hardness within him. To be used, and wait patiently through that using, straining for that lyrical voice to tell him, _'you may, you can, good boy'._

"Take me with you, next time," Erik says, immediately biting down as though the words might be recaptured. The telepath knows his captive's desires sometimes before he knows them himself, but Lehnsherr's still astonishingly healthy pride insists he need not compound the his shame by speaking such weaknesses aloud.

"That would have been very distracting," Charles murmurs fondly, graciously ignoring his lover's half-conscious mental digression. "I wouldn't have made it to a single evening conference, if I'd known you were waiting in my bed."

 

Erik is not so confident in his own charms, knowing the professor's appetite for new data and discoveries. The whole house had been abuzz with preparations for the trip, the sheer breadth of the symposium delighting those with even vaguely scientific leanings. McCoy especially had not been shy about assigning lectures _he_ wished to see by proxy, though the professor's reservations had already numbered in the double digits. Charles' first love has always been genetics, but he also has a great weakness for particle physics, astronomy, and pathogen research. 

Chuckling, the metal-bender asks, "How many lectures *did* you attend, all told?" 

"A fair few," Xavier replies, playfully mysterious. "I was fortunate enough to attend a particular presentation on fascinating new findings regarding subatomic particle behavior."

"You and your quarks," Erik says with fond exasperation. He smiles both because the term conjures roseate memories of their first union (in the seemingly separate country of endless highways, nondescript hotels, and Charles' adorably bad pickup lines), and because he finds the word itself amusing. English is a great magpie of a language, indiscriminately borrowing from others with impunity, and then going so far as to arrogantly make up its own. 

_('Poetry, in this case, actually.')_ Xavier murmurs through their internal embrace. _('James Joyce.'_ ) Lehnsherr gets a general sense of the poem from which the particle takes its name, but he's never been much impressed with more stylistically inventive modern literature. Nabokov, White, Elliot, even Rand-- those are more to his taste, each writer being wry, sensible, critical, and epic by turns. 

 

"'He asked me would I yes to say yes'," the telepath recites faithfully, skimming a proprietary caress down Erik's flank. Again, the older mutant is treated to the general sense memory and associations of the passage. Charles, restless and not-quite homesick during his first months at Oxford, untethered by all those things he dearly longed to escape. Struggling to carve out context for himself _as_ himself (no one's son or stepson now, thank you) amidst the overwhelming English damp and medieval architecture. Over a long holiday, he'd curled up by the radiator with a borrowed copy of  Ulysses, knowing Raven would come soon and yet still wondering. Trying to fathom, in the yellowing lamplight made necessary by the sheer impenetrability of the fog, if anyone ever truly felt the joy described in those pages, such communion with another being. His gifts made him yearn for the notion even as he shrank from the constant hum of minds around him and, as ever, he'd heard the echo of his chosen sister stridently telling him to stay out.

Erik swallows around a depth of old sorrow that is not his own and then, taking up one of Charles' dear hands, kisses each finger with a reverence and blinding affinity that belongs to him alone. "I'm hardly a 'mountain flower'," he says roughly, affection bleeding through the mock offense. 

"Perhaps not," the professor allows. "The mountain alone will do." The union of their mouths is less a kiss and more of a feasting as the taller mutant gives himself over, quivering but submissive to all the little nips and licks. "My austere and impossible peak." Xavier's grin is positively wicked, but it cannot hide his honest satisfaction. Impishly, he reaches for a part of Erik's anatomy that is very much aspiring to its pinnacle. Lehnsherr has half a mind to protest the compliment, even as he melts with it. Mountains, yes-- mountains that cascade back into their very foundations. Veins of ore bow that just as Erik does under Charles' will and adoration; peaks which he would move or ruin or thrust towards the sky, reordering the terrain to provoke that boyish sparkle of blue eyes. 

Affectionately, but perhaps also tinged with a bit of sorrow, "You do have a penchant for grand gestures, love." 

"Charles, I--" Erik bites down on his lip. There is so much that he will do, so much he has compromised for his _schatz_ ; those three little words-- in any language-- should be as easy as lifting a pin. And he has lain such verbal offerings at his lover's feet before, though the scant practice has never made them come more readily. Like mothers who give their beloved infants pet titles-- 'lamb' and 'dearheart' and 'lovey'-- to trick away the jealous spirits, who must know a person's true name in order to steal their soul. Bad luck, to speak such things aloud.

 

"Hush." Gently, Charles silences him with a finger. Not to the metal-bender's lips, but instead easing past his lover's tightening balls to circle that pucker  
_('So *spoiled*')_ , comes the loving chuckle.  
"You are beautiful, priceless, and very much _**mine**_ ," Xavier continues firmly, punctuating his point with kisses to Erik's jaw. "When you are tempted to think otherwise," a kiss to the collar itself, "now you have this to remind you. Such a perfectionist." He strokes the older mutant's vulnerability, the soft unweathered skin between phallus, balls and that darker, intimate core with all the care he'd give a priceless artifact. A conspiratorial whisper, more a movement of lips against the shell of Lehnsherr's ear. "I know you compliments make you uncomfortable, but I fear I must ask that you indulge me on occasion." 

"I know what I am," Erik gasps out, his mind's eye reflecting-- for the briefest but most tell-tale of instances-- his own form felled on the hot sand. That finger caresses, caresses, exploring the topography of his his hole, but it won't go _in_. 

"Do you, now?" The professor's tone is silky smooth, and therefore all the more dangerous. "Then let's hear you say it."

"Yours," Lehnsherr admits on a sigh. Without thinking, he closes his eyes and licks his lips, anticipating the smooth entry of Charles' index finger. It's not the same as getting fucked, but the telepath is also adept at this sort of penetrative massage, often milking the his lover for everythingthe taller man is worth. Or perhaps more fingers will join, slow smoldering pleasure rather than the anticipatory burn of cock. The professor has fisted Erik once, some time ago, after what felt like hours and at least three times more preparation than was actually necessary. He'd held up a mirror so Erik could see, murmuring all the while about his accommodating darling, his pet of such voracious appetites. It was so good, Erik can still almost taste it-- how lost he was within the sea-caverns of his own submission, heated through until he matched the azure pitch of his _liebling_ 's eyes.

All the same, he's not sure he wants to do it again-- at least, not now. The last time, Charles wouldn't fuck him for more than a week afterwards and, every time the professor tenderly inspected his boy in the interim, Erik ended up sobbing and begging despite himself.

 

"And since when do you determine our itinerary?" Xavier scolds, but his tone is playful and the pinch to Erik's ass perfunctory. 

"I'm yours," Lehnsherr moans again, canting his hips as much as possible-- waiting, waiting. The circuitous touches continue, never quite closing on their goal, and Erik's eyes fly open to gaze worriedly at the professor's face. He muffles a whimper-- yearning for instruction as to how he may correct whatever he has done wrong.

"Nothing, love," his captor soothes, dropping a few kisses on the metal-bender's mouth. "I'm merely patient. Tell me what you are."

 

Erik makes no effort to hide his frown. At this point, he is so lost in the conflicting waves of bliss and concern that he may not, in fact, be capable of dissembling at all. Conscious thought grinds to a further halt as Xavier bids the invisible bonds move and coil about Erik, as if they too are awaiting the correct answer.

"I'm your boy," he tries, fingers clenching ruthlessly in the cushions of the divan. 

"Warmer," Charles says sweetly, the ever-present moon-tide that coaxes his lover so willingly into the depths.

Lehnsherr shakes his head, almost whipping it back and forth. He just _needs_ : he's so keyed up right now that one extra push-- a nibble, a brush against his member, the small scrape of a nail-- and those words from his _liebchen_ will send him over the edge…  
Oh, merciful heavens, is _that_ what the professor wants to hear?

_('Yes.')_ Charles projects to him; each word an inarticulate melody of adoring avarice. _('And I want to hear it **out loud**.')_

 

As though he truly is a small boy, Erik squirms-- not pulling away, exactly, but trying to make himself smaller. Instinctively curling inward in spirit if not in form. 

_('Come on, my sweet,')_ that beloved countertenor is a patient croon. _('I know you can do it.')_

The frustrated whine that escapes Lehnsherr at this point is high-pitched and completely involuntary. Even worse, it sounds very nearly petulant once it reaches his own ears. There's always a difference between hearing a sound as its loosed from within and registering its odd echo in the air, the way other people must hear it. It's the closest parallel Charles has found to describe spoken language as opposed to his native, mental tongue. 

Now, Erik flinches at his own behavior. An old prickle of fear comes to him; fresh needle tracks on defenseless flesh. Or, more appropriately, a fissure in the calm waters of bliss created by their love-making. He's not afraid of Charles. That first moment of awe, of recognition, has never quite left the metal-bender, so that even hinting at deliberate cruelty on Xavier's part seems like something of a sacrilege. The seeds of terror he is experiencing are old and ingrained-- very real no matter how quickly he wrests them down. Trepidation at every moment of delay, at his failure to obey with complete alacrity. His throat feels bone-dry as he struggles for words.

 

Charles kisses him, deftly licking the older mutant's mouth open, letting all sound be swallowed between them. His hands soothe at Erik's temples, caressing the older mutant's hair.   
_('You're good-- you're being so good. No one is timing you, no one is changing the rules.')_ This is the firm and inviolate ocean bed, for the professor is in fact the only ruler Erik has ever known who doesn't change the rules at whim.

The caprice of humanity, of the universe, are a given. The world is clogged with discordant martial fanfare and the nattering of drunken generals who will take blood because honor was never a possibility. Charles is far from perfect

_(--his flaws match your flaws and you have decimated each other--)_

but he is like the most glorious of Swiss masterpieces, tempo and metal-heart workings of a precise and singular breed. Even now, after so much, he is   
_(--almost--)_  
exactly as Erik always knew he could be. One wild swing of the pendulum, and both their worlds had changed irrevocably. There is no going back. Someday, the human would may see the transformation wrought by their foolish missiles on that beach. For now, only Erik truly sees the shift in Charles-- imperceptible as light sliding along its spectrum. Like everything else about his lover, Lehnsherr clutches this knowledge close, for he is the most greedy of prisoners.

 

_('I told you long ago,')_ Xavier projects gently. _('You are not alone.')_ The continuing, lewd union of their mouths gives the metal-bender time to relax back within the professor's hold. It is less a kiss and more a ravishment. An oral fucking, sending another curl of arousal to blot out all but the two lovers. _('Perhaps I knew better once, but I cannot let you go.')_ There is almost genuine regret there, but not much, and Erik would never expect anyone to apologize for doing whatever is necessary to remain sane. _('Death, our enemies, or any unnamed force-- **no one** will take you from me. Would I treat you so carelessly, then? Would I harm the one who tries so very hard for me?')_

"I'm your good boy," Erik admits at last, speaking the moment they part for breath. Not a small voice, but an infinitely delicate one. The professor moves those vivid lips to drop tiny kisses on every inch of Lehnsherr he can reach. The strong lines of clavicle, up along the jugular to press close against the pounding blood and taught muscles, and then peppering back down over the older mutant's heart. Charles even reserves a regretful, almost apologetic set of caresses for the scar on Erik's chest.

_(-- almost lost you can't lose you; my civilized predator, my poor weary warrior; teacher brother lover adored--)_

 

If Erik has felt Charles' absence keenly, then Xavier missed his lover to an equal or greater degree. Erik can see, through their intwined senses, how the professor thought of him aboard trains and through the tedious taxi rides so necessary in New York. Charles longed for their companionship as old sights-- cliched, in some cases, be originally viewed with Erik-- reminded him of their long ago recruiting trip. The ease of traveling-- even across country-- with his new friend had been unprecedented, filled with an amazing rapport that long predated their physical union. And yes, on this latest trip, the telepath had longed for his lover in those narrow, empty beds. Imagining, dreaming of Erik in the comfortless hotel rooms that comprise the kingdom of Could-Be-Anywhere. And, while some part of him has known this intellectually, Lehnsherr feels reassured and (guiltily) gratified to experience the emotions from Charles' side. There is no end to the bliss of knowing he is not alone in his avarice, in his grasping desire to stay by the professor's side. 

 

"You **are** my good boy," Charles agrees, breathless with victory and the delicate handling of his captive. "Dear, wanton creature. Such a treasure, my little love. So thoughtful, steadfast, and obedient. _Insatiable_." For a moment, those blue eyes hide while he collects himself. When the telepath reopens them, a little quirk has returned to his smile-- harkening back to their love-play. 

"And good little boys get rewarded."

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [+] _ampere_ \- a unit of measure for the flow of electrical current.  
> [+] _quark_ \- one of the fundamental particles composing all matter. As Charles says, they take their name from James Joyce's Finnegan's Wake. There are six 'flavors' of quarks, which have fun names like 'up', 'down', 'charm' and 'strange'. (And these Quantum Physicists want to act as though they have no sense of humor! ^_~) The theory wasn't put forth until 1964, so there's _slight_ time-smudging in that I also mention them in "Night Ocean". Hopefully you'll forgive me. *puppy-dog eyes*  
>  [+] Charles quotes from Molly Bloom's soliloquy in James Joyce's Ulysses (1918-1920)
> 
> … and chocolate-covered quarks for all! ^__^''


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three reasons why this needs to be posted tonight: a) I promised the brilliant **valancysnaith** , who is far too awesome to ever be disobeyed, b) Happy Purim! *waits to be struck by lightning* and, c) if I don't post this now I will keep fussing with it until I don't post at all. ^^''
> 
> If you enjoy AUs in which Charles and Erik maintain the school together while being desperately in love, morally ambiguous, and just really kind of messed up, you absolutely MUST read **valancysnaith's** [Thou Shalt Not Eat Stones](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5512991/chapters/12730991). My summary hasn't done it one tenth of the justice it deserves, and we've had a lot of awesome discussions about life at the Xavier(/Lehnsherr) school. ;-)
> 
> That said, please enjoy a chapter in which Erik gets his reward (and more besides!), one very determined Charles gets him alllll the way under, and there's quite a bit of aftercare. Trigger warnings include Stockholm-y nostalgia, unhealthy relationships, unsubtle metaphors, and some really kinky telepathic sex. (If you're worried about the last one, scroll to the end notes for details.)

There are many ways in which Xavier has ensnared his lover, but the psychic cords-- so lately humming, held in waiting for Erik's reply-- are by far among those shackles dearest to the prisoner himself. Erik adores them, is in love with them because they _are_ Charles. Just as any metal Lehnsherr manipulates becomes a proxy of himself, so too does the telepath's mutation blur the line between corporeal reality and the oft-dismissed metaphysical. In another era, Erik would have been considered a practitioner of dark magics-- damned for the perception of one identity, if not the fact of another. But, while stones might have been cast in his direction, too-- ah! It was far more likely Charles would have been a _god_.

_(and you could be, still. I would be your priest as well as your general, neshama, mein schatz…)_

 

It's a gift so powerful, at once elusive and omnipresent, that it is difficult to conceptualize. The CIA had seen, at best, a sort of organic 'battery' for McCoy's installation. At worst, they had dismissed 'mind-reading' as an outworn parlor trick. Even Erik hadn't truly understood just how vulnerable they all were; that it was less a strain for Xavier to hear and more a constant effort to single something intelligible out of the cacophony or  
_(sweet, transient relief)_  
hold it entirely at bay. The body that makes love to Lehnsherr is, in moments like these, betrayed as merely a handsome vessel-- marvelous architecture which the professor chooses to inhabit. 

 

Charles' psyche holds Erik just as one would cup and shield a drop of dew. The cords multiply exponentially to form this cocoon, coalescing into a handful of thicker tendrils which dart, viper swift, down towards Erik's entrance. He would gasp at the sophistication of the sensory input, but the resulting wave of pleasure is so intense that for a moment he can not cry out, blink, or manage a single breath. To be penetrated by these bonds, fucked by their velvet texture and unyielding gentleness is not the sort of fantasy Erik could possibly conceive of consciously, let alone admit to. But there's no need, is there? Charles has been practicing, working through the mechanics during their separation. His conquering _liebling_ has found another glittering piece of darkness, and made it fact. 

Such brilliant, miniature stars flare before him right now, obscuring Erik's physical sight. Unconsciously, perhaps even due only to Charles' prompting, he takes a breath so deep and sweet it tastes as though he has just burst up from the depths. Over these sounds-- the tide of his blood in his ears, the white breakers of his own breath-- the echoing bursts of those stars preside. Within all of this, a still small voice speaks. The absolute reign of calm:

"So good for me, my love. Yes. Yes, you may."

And so Erik does, carried swelling and away in that glowing ecstasy, existing in one long moment during which he knows and chants only Charles' name.

 

 

By the time the bonds are finished having their way with Erik

_('Their fill,' Charles corrects him at one point, after the second or third in this round of orgasms. Erik is vaguely surprised his lover has found a coherent thought upon which to comment, as he writhes in his snare of pleasure. If rationality remains afterward, it flees with Xavier's next words; 'They're hungry, my love. They've missed you just as much as I have, and we could just **eat. you. up.** ' The somewhat predictable follow-up of being deep-throated by the professor is all the more Earth-shattering for the vigorous fucking of those invisible cords, working in tandem.)_

 

he is a shivering wreck. He has drawn Charles into his lap; is holding and being held. It is a powerful position, reminiscent of the comfort he received after that first unconditional surrender to this beloved conquerer. As usual, Xavier has made use of the additional height from his perch, drawing Erik's head to rest under his chin. They press together, warmth and skin in such sensitized tandem that they almost share the same pulse.

 

It seems that these times as though the older mutant is briefly endowed with his lover's unique sight as well. Not the complicated, thorn-spangled web of telepathy, but _Charles_ ' perception of living-- of color, feeling, and of Erik himself. Despite the shadow cast by Cuba, Xavier's world is still arrayed in heraldic dyes, banners of shimmering thread that change even as one beholds them. There's a voluptuousness to experience, a willingness to see and feel all, despite the strange echoes and angles of the world. Optimism like the faded inks of illuminated manuscripts; erudition spread as the doors of Oxford's libraries thrown wide; devotion and affection of all forms rendered in tapestried hues.

Charles is easy to imagine amongst medieval stone towers-- or ivory ones, at least-- laden with embroidered hangings where the whispers of the world try to creep in. There is one panel in particular Erik recalls from his own patchwork education of the primary, classical, rabbinical, and the particular flavor learned at the executioner's knee. Where did he see it? No matter. It is a woven illustration, a labor of threads like brush-strokes. A white unicorn, kneeling within the confines of a fence over which it could easily leap. Yet it stays there content-- perhaps blissfully collared, if Erik's memory serves. 

_('Yes. Collared in blue, I believe,')_ Xavier sends, though it is not so much expressed in words as in his own internal snapshot of the same piece. He lifts a finger to caress along Erik's new finery, blaming Lehnsherr when the older man complains of lazy metaphors. _('You started it, love.')_

There is a rippling, half-formed thought flowing beneath such humor, the swish of a night-creature's wild tail; _'And who is the captive of whom?'_ It fades before it can even cast a shadow, and who knows who it actually belonged to. There are times Erik is uncertain as to whether particular insights are generated by himself, Charles, or the… _togetherness_ of them as a whole.  
_That_ notion is rewarded with a kiss. 

 

Chuckling indulgently, Charles leans away just enough to reach for the goblet of Tokay abandoned nearby. Erik responds to this with a faint, needy little noise, nuzzling against that delightful pulse as soon as his lover tilts back again. 

"We should eat, my dear," Xavier says patiently, after a few more unprotesting moments in Erik's embrace. "I brought something down earlier-- time seems to have gotten away from me."

Reluctantly, Erik releases the telepath, slumping bonelessly against the divan. He's lost track of the number of orgasms he has experienced tonight and, though his throat now reminds him that a drink of water *would* be nice, he still feels half caught in the wine-dark world of Charles' caresses. 

Though the professor is scarcely across the room, the all-too-familiar prickle of shame is-- as always-- hot on the former assassin's heels. His lover was right earlier, of course. Neither Erik or the boy-corpse within know how to grapple with praise. For too long was ' _kleiner_ Erik Lehnsherr' reshaped by pain alone, messily restitched by animal responses of pain/punish and the 'reward' of neglect. The default, despite the rationality of adult intellect, always edges back towards 

_(bad, monster, failure, specimen, **thing** )_

'wrong', further compounded by the years during which the standards never stayed the same long enough to allow for 'success'. 

 

Despite wanting to be good for Charles, a part of Erik will always feel

_(pathetic, broken, you did surrender, you _did_…)_

reproach for himself, afterwards. The professor returns, bearing a small plate of fruit, cheese, and a little pile of sliced turkey folded like thin scraps of fleshy satin. He has a glass of water for Erik as well, setting both burdens on the low table. 

"You're rather prepared," he grumbles. Yet, as soon as the telepath is within reach again, Lehnsherr has his hands on him. The relief is as ridiculous as it is potent. 

"You've taught me the virtues of preparedness," Xavier teases gently. "I feared we wouldn't have much time to indulge, but Hank and Alex have promised to oversee the children's morning activities."

"All they've wanted to do the past few days is play in the snow-- even the older ones," the metal-bender says distractedly. It is a puzzling concept for him, the festivity cold precipitation engenders. He is also more than a little preoccupied with what has, in the last year or so, become quite a luxury: 'alone-time' with his young man. 

 

Erik does not begrudge a single moment he and Charles have dedicated to shaping the future of their kind, but it's impossible to deny the satisfaction he feels in being the sole focus of the professor's attention. A double-sided echo, both of those days spent on the road recruiting, and of that timeless, ember-gilded period as Erik recovered from the stand-off with Shaw. Though never truly at use with perceived inaction, by his own impetus or otherwise, but he still treasures the memory of his _neshama_ 's coaxing hand; that dream-cycle of a sage's occultation, during which he was Charles' beloved, transgressive secret. 

His return to life in the upper mansion was couched as a reunion with the X-men after brief, self-imposed exile in South America. The pretense of physical journey, to replace the circuitous metaphorical wanderings Erik undertook in his own heart and mind. He firmly resists the belief in miracles even now, as reluctant to acknowledge his oasis as he was unable to resist the pillar of fire that has led him hence.

_('No one could break you. Erik, Erik... I don't want you to break. Just... bend.'_

_And how he had bent, to eat from that gentle palm, to lower his head in supplication and rest against those firm thighs. The snare of caresses about his neck and shoulders belonged to one awed by the weight he had carried. Who, knowing the vulnerability that comes with such strength, wished to ensure Erik never again labored under his burden alone._

_'Our love-making was such a shadow, before.')_

 

 

"Isn't it better this way?" Xavier asks presently, tone no less dreamy for the shadows stirring below the deeper flecks in those rich eyes. Not regret, precisely, and certainly not remorse. Simply a vein of pure gold remaining, trapped within the adamant his lover has become. "Dearest-- _my_ dearest-- now there's no need to hide, for either of us." He strokes Erik's hair, holding his lover's skull as one might a delicate chalice, studying the older mutant's face as though the mind behind it had not been divined long ago. How easy, even from the first, to get lost in that vivid regard! The fight is not-- perhaps never truly was-- about wresting free of one another's grip, but rather only of proving how inescapable is the hold. 

"We do hide, though," the former assassin murmurs, sentiment slipping between his lips like some sour drink. "All of us." ' _Der emes kumt aroys vi boyml afn vaser_ ' his mother used to hiss at his father, late at night-- but only when Erik was very young. There came a time when the truth was so evident and grotesque that it did not need to be spoken. Why bother, why borrow trouble?

"Wise words," Charles says, embrace tightening for a moment. "In regards to truth, and borrowing trouble. Don't fret about Trask, my love. The thought of mutation as a modern phenomena hasn't even coalesced in his mind. With a failed weapons demonstration, he won't be able to fund the research needed to investigate simple avenues, let alone the undertaking he would need to reach anything substantive. Hank and I have been subtle, but we've made a concentrated effort to move away from anything that could expose our kind. Academic vogue," this said with the disdain Charles reserves for the particularly petty aspects of university life, "has been trending that way already-- they _want_ to believe that perceptible evolution always requires millions of years. Our leap forward is unconceivable, despite the implications of epigenetics and radiation research." 

 

While he had not been thinking of Trask in particular, Erik does have the grace to look caught. The intricate spheres of his mind had indeed returned to old tracks, despite the torpidity floating so indulgently through his veins. The thought of himself and Charles, here in their precious bubble of night, led easily to thoughts of an equally rare morning during which the professor might indulge his preference for slow, lazy wakening. The task of rousing Charles in place of an alarm clock would be quite pleasant for Erik, as well, but there's a disquiet that gathers in the metal-bender when world feels too peaceful… too safe. The time to anticipate attack is when every front seems serene. 

_('I don't think having to reinforce the south wall counts as 'peaceful', precisely,')_ Charles chides, providing a clear image of the guilty parties-- Angel and Janos, of all people-- making an effort to look contrite even as they hissed at one another in Spanish. 

That must be conceded, along with the fact that any ill-moods, colds, or weather-related restlessness could make it difficult for Hank and Alex to keep order quite long enough to reach morning snack time. Lehnsherr foresees a hoard of frolicking, snow-drenched children (and young adults who damn well ought to know better), resulting in sodden coats, mittens, and other such paraphernalia. Not two days ago, he had to stretch the wire screen in front of the fire place to accommodate the myriad garments that needed drying, and he wouldn't put it past Johnny to try his hand again at speeding things up-- no matter what warnings the pyrokinetic may have been given.

_('Wool does go up awfully quickly,')_ Xavier's mental amusement always feels like the brush of a feather. " _('Luckily, we don't have any sheep about for Johnny to set ablaze.')_

"You could certainly keep them on these blasted grounds." In the spring, Erik will no doubt be leading a small troop of young mutants out to assist with gardening chores. Tom, of course, will offer to help. Always looking for an ingratiating angle, Betsy's human, and the metal-bender knows already that he will grudgingly have to accept. One half-pleading, seemingly resigned look from his lover will see to that. 

And there it is. "Oh, you needn't be so hard on him. Betsy's very much in love with him and, while her telepathy isn't as advanced as her psychokinesis, she's strong enough to sense any duplicity." 

 

That Charles would catch any traitorous thought long before she could remains unspoken. Lehnsherr has mostly resigned himself to the fact the mansion is so… inclusive. In this case, tolerating Lennox is better than having a squadron of humans from some lawn service milling about. That, Erik would not stand for-- no matter what the professor can make them ignore or forget later. 

Xavier's sidelong glance would be coy if it weren't so penetrating. "He knows you don't like him."

"I'm perfectly polite," Erik mutters. Next he'll be expected to issue an invitation, rather than simple acceptance, in the name of 'team bonding' or some such nonsense. If he could bottle the sheer power of those cerulean eyes, he likely _could_ rule the world, sans telepathy or other powers for that matter. He's heard the children fussing at one another often enough before, during, and after some escapade-- 'Don't make a mess! The professor will be _disappointed_ at you.' 

"Is it that bad?"

There's a ready answer for that, "Unequivocally. And you know it." 

To which Charles responds with his own token grumble, itself quickly dissolving into a murmur of satisfaction as he begins suckling a bruise on his lover's collarbone. 

 

Silence gathers around them in easy mists, a lapse in conversation that is by no means uncomfortable. A log pops once, twice, in the fireplace as Erik stares unseeing into the flames. For a little while, Charles seems content to share their embrace, nuzzling and petting absently at his lover's hair, but the gentle chiming of the room's single gilt-and-brass clock seems to act as a short of cue.

Without warning, the younger mutant rocks forward-- a playful attempt to overbalance them both back prone onto the divan. Or cause them to fall off, Erik thinks wryly, almost certain Charles was and is depending on his reflexes to save them both. The instinct is there and ready, one of the many reasons the metal-bender refuses to play-wrestle with the younger students. In one smooth twist, he has Charles underneath him, pinned hip to hip with those lovely wrists shackled by Erik's larger hands. Xavier blinks up at him, utterly unrepentant, even as his captor loosens his grip in self-conscious solicitude. 

"Tighter," the telepath demands. And, to the unspoken concern about leaving marks, " _Leave_ them then. Who'll see them under my 'ridiculous sweaters', hmmm? Who'll know but you, how you've decorated me with your own hands?" The mischievous smile melts into something softer as the professor begins to wriggle eagerly, nudging one of his lover's thighs between both of his own. Charles is a branding heat, heavy and half-hard, with the remnant moisture of Erik's own come still lingering in the secret places between arsehole and cock. 

 

" _Liebling_." Lehnsherr tenses the muscle, nudging his knee forward to provide more access for however his lover may wish to use the form still half-trembling with exhaustion. It occurs to him, as Charles comes to full attention against him, that it is impossible to tell how many (if at all, after the first) times Xavier was physically gratified while he busied himself with Erik's tender torment. Questioningly, he searches the face now flushed with returning fervor. Such neglect certainly deserves dedicated penance.

"Oh, no you don't," comes the reply, as those swimmer's legs clamp him closer, ensuring that Erik is now the beneficiary of their bodies' friction as well. "You're not getting out of this." The older mutant is still so sensitive, so _used_ , that each little moment of pressure or delicious scrape of hairs results in tremors that threaten to break apart body and will. Stubbornly, he remains braced, though even the darkness behind his own eyes seems vertiginous. He hardens in spite of himself, unsure if the effect is actually slow or simply feels so through the agonizing rapture.

"I can't," he says, knowing he was almost coming dry at the last, pleasured beyond endurance. Despite the clock's chiming, he has no idea what time it is, and he doubts Charles knows either. 

Firmly, almost soothingly, "You will."

Lehnsherr shudders in helpless, fearful delight. Then, contradicting both words and the exhaustion of his own form, "Oh, yes…"

"Oxford-style, do you remember?" Charles asks, winking in an obscene example of multitasking. 

 

Erik remembers. Lake Vermillion, Minnesota; eponymous light leaking in sparse drops through the closed shades, dimming as the sun sank and Erik fused the doorknob in triumphant anticipation. Charles had gambled on a scientific pass, but it had been implicit in the atmosphere between them that he needn't have cobbled one together at all. The first time, grappling with one another, already drawing lines in the sand and daring the other to cross. He'd asked Charles to stay out then, but not before their minds touched briefly. Having tasted that, wanting to take the telepath's body by storm in retaliation, how could Erik resist the chance to tease his lover about the limitations of boarding school groping?

_('Not _that_',)_ comes the almost desperately impatient dismissal. _('How you held me down, how you seemed…')_

Ah. Knowing which performance he's being asked to repeat, Lehnsherr gives a resounding encore to ensure the remaining 'afraid I would disappear' is never thought, let alone said. 

 

Whatever name they want to hang on it, the present erotic tussle that follows will never be a highlight of their stamina or inventiveness. The older mutant can barely contribute to the well-worn motion, serving mostly to anchor as their merged forms are carried by slimmer, bucking hips. Neither one of them needs much to push the line of pleasure-pain over that of endurance, and their bodies bow-- in physical surrender or at Charles behest, Erik honestly can't say. His hands, clenched so tightly about his lover's wrists that he can feel the chorusing pulse of wrists and cock, ache as Xavier comes hot against him, evoking little more than a thin drip in return. He lets go carefully before collapsing, mindful also not to rest his full weight on the professor, stretching his sore fingers with vague guilt. They've made quite the further mess of themselves, and Charles will have his marks, that much is certain. 

 

"Shhh, shhh," the telepath soothes as their breathing evens at last. Gently, he guides the older mutant up, rearranging them so Erik can curl close in the 'V' of Charles' legs. The tears leaking quietly-- without ceremony but also without shame-- from Lehnsherr's grey-green eyes fall sparsely onto his lover's strong chest, treated with simple, silent acknowledgment by both men. 

Erik does not sob. He has spent far too long hiding any emotion to let noise accompany the already rare tears. He is still not even one to laugh unguardedly. It is all the more telling then, what Charles can do to him. Not a reduction or disarmament, but the most patient of coaxings. Having lost all sense of internal sea or sky, the metal-bender simply clings. Charles cradles his head and strokes his hair, but Erik's arms are almost an unforgiving vise, holding on as a child does to one endlessly loved talisman. As if the embrace is vital to maintain cohesion. The younger mutant whispers and croons to him; of how lovely he is, how strong, and so very good. Such praise casts the world in halos more brilliant than those inspired by the most potent drink. 

He buries his face in the pale, graceful column of his lover's neck, so he might once more feel the faint thrum of the carotid under his own cheekbone. "I've missed you, love," Charles says again, though they are hardly words Erik will ever tire of hearing. That hum of contentment, somehow accented with the same flavor as Xavier's spoken voice, vibrates lightly. It draws Erik's lips towards his lover's adam's apple, which he laps at with his tongue until the sound is repeated more helplessly. 

"What a lovely homecoming," the professor strokes Lehnsherr's hair, letting the bonds soften and melt back into that ethereal mantle of affection. Softer than velveteen lily, crimson where Charles' passion burns through, and so pleasantly heavy. Keeping Erik where he is held, leaving him delightfully lost with his godling. 

Sighing, Erik settles down beneath those sensations and against Xavier, with the faintest memory of a time before time. A warm bed, the absence of fear, and shelter from the cold night. The image is not a peace he could ever have known in a visceral sense, as himself. It is too far back-- and dangerous, for offering something other than agony-- and so the weapon that emerged from beneath scalpels and ash has disremembered it. Such faint impressions belong to the boy who was; a creature who would seem entirely theoretical if not for the sway he holds in the unlighted depths of Erik's under-mind. There is little to unite the boy and the man, save the memory of loss… and this: even that stitched-together, half-feral being is not immune to Charles' spell. He would come, though skittish and only reluctantly gentled, to eat out of Xavier's hand. 

Mirroring this thought, Erik opens his eyes after a light prod to find his lover is offering a green grape between forefinger and thumb. Obediently, he takes it into his own mouth, making far more contact with the slim, strong digits than is strictly necessary. He can feel the telepath's languid delight but, as closely entwined as they are in the aftermath of such intense coupling, he can also sense the professor's own fatigue and faint beginnings of hunger.

 

When he rouses himself enough to sit up for a drink of water, Erik does not return to lay his head in Xavier's lap, blissful though the position may be. He catches Charles massaging at his temples between bites of turkey, and quickly replaces the professor's fingers with his own. With a faint groan of relief, Charles leans into the rhythmic caresses. The rest of the turkey is pressed to Lehnsherr's lips as a reward.

"I'm afraid it has been out a little while, now," comes the murmur as those blue eyes slip savoringly closed.

Lehnsherr huffs slightly, unconcerned as he draws the younger mutant towards the crook of his arm. Charles knows very well he doesn't mind; would not, in fact, have likely noticed if not for the professor's remark. Trailing a grape-- this one dark, almost blood-mauve in the firelight-- across those plush lips, Erik watches with no small amount of satisfaction as it disappears. His own hand trembles holding it, every nerve still awash. 

"Poor little thing," Charles croons pityingly against his lover's temple. Soft, sweet, with all the guilelessness of one small boy seeking warmth and companionship from another as the shadows of some great forest gather around. Erik savors the feeling despite the fact some of it is play. His professor is a beautiful, inverted woodcut; the comely youth who leads the wolf away from known paths and dens. "You were so dedicated in serving me. I asked a bit much of you, didn't I?"

 

" _Nein_ ," he whispers back firmly. He's lost interest in the food, eating only because he knows Xavier wants him to, that it is part of being good. Every inch where flesh meets flesh is filled with somnolent bliss, and it seems they are both in and around each other. Waves lapping, milk-warm, against a lunar shore. "Like you say." The punctuating yawn is completely unintentional and unavoidable.

"… never ask for anything more than I can give."

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [+] The Unicorn In Captivity can be seen [here, at the Met.](https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/37.80.6/)  
> [+] _Der emes kumt aroys vi boyml afn vaser._ \- Yiddish saying; 'the truth comes out like oil on water'.  
> [+] Epigenetics is the study of changes in organisms based on the way their DNA is _read_ , rather than on the DNA itself. It's seen most obviously in the development of fetuses, where cells divide and organize into specialized groups. So, in my pseudo-sciency universe, the 'X' gene mentioned in the comics is the result of a radical change in the way regular human DNA is being transcribed. Yes, I really am that much of non-expert, arm-chair nerd. 
> 
> ... we'll just pretend that redeems this ever-so-slightly from being a complete PWP. If you have a moment to comment or kudos, I'd be ever so grateful! ;-)
> 
>  
> 
> Expanded Trigger Warning: by 'really kinky telepathic sex' I mean that Charles uses the psychic 'cord' illusion to fuck Erik with. Kind of a sensory-impression of object penetration, I guess. Because we all know Erik didn't need to any encouragement to have a fetish for those things. ^_~


End file.
